The Master of the Game
by TheWarSausage
Summary: Old were his hands and gnarled, yet tough like tree roots, twisting in dark and secret places. Still nimble his fingers picked up a knight lingering over its finely crafted features of witchwood and ebony. Do you know why they call it the game of kings?
1. The Hour of the Wolf

Author's Note:

Well I'm not a native speaker (really could use a beta) but I hope it will still be an enjoyable experience.

Oh and contrary to what the choice of main characters might suggest, there will be no slash here ladies and gentlemen. Sorry.

A Word of Introduction about the story:

I had the original idea for this thing before I read the Deathly Hallows so the story follows canon only until the end of the Half-Blood prince. Certain details will nonetheless be identical to canon, most importantly: Voldemort is worm-fodder.

The consequences ( and the events leading up to the "final battle") will be quite different though. I was never a fan of the Dark Lord cliche far more interesting to my mind are the conflicts of ordinary people - of normal political and economical leaders, who have no need for black cloaks but can be evil enough. The primary idea to this whole thing is the question: What would realistically happen if you managed to kill the leader of some terrorist organization? Would its members just lay down their arms and henceforth peacefully grow their crops, bitching over the wife, the boss and the disrespectful youth nowadays? I don't believe so. People are inherently lazy; to get them to rise up in arms there has to be some driving need, some injustice (true or perceived) to motivate them. Such things don't disappear because a leader has been slain.

We enter the action about four to five years after Voldemort's demise, so the Trio is in its early twenties.

* * *

"Well, shit!"

"Really Seamus, your powers of observation continue to astound."

"Weasley?"

"Yes my dear friend?"

"Go and fuck a furry rabbit, will ya?"

"Was that an illicit overture, or are you…"

"Silence you imbeciles, both of you or I will come down and knock some heads together, understand?"

It is said that the waiting for the battle to begin is the worst torture known to mankind. Obviously whoever came up with this drivel never spend even a split-second under the Crucio curse or they would rather have swallowed their own tongue than annoy posterity with their meaningless babbling.

Still the old saying is not entirely without merit, a fact to which Ron Weasley can sadly testify a hundred times over. His squad is as professional as they came these days, with rookies pressed into battle before they are ready, nonetheless the strain needs an outlet and finds it in slightly hysterical bouts of not-quite-so-funny humour.

Normally One-Eye would have ignored it, yet this morning finds him rather stressed out and when Alastor Moody is stressed out someone – Merlin help him – has to pay for it. If Ron was in a somewhat more conciliatory mood, he might have admitted that Moody has ample reason to be pissed off, starting with the ever present Ministry bureaucracy to the abrupt change of timetable for the mission. But his team has spend the better part of the last hour low-crawling over this industrial wasteland, turned mud hole by the driving rain and littered with garbage, shards and – as Seamus now knows firsthand – piles of dog shit. Therefore he is a tad irritable himself and not all that willing to deal with his commander's moods.

According to the Unspeakables the abandoned coal mine they are currently stalking contains a large Death Eater safe house, serving as hub and depot for illegal weapon shipments from the continent.

Ron slithers forward another meter through the darkness, easily avoiding contact with the heap of dog poo, now that its position is known courtesy of Seamus Finnegan. His petty triumph is rather short lived as they have to crawl through an enormous puddle, drenching every last bit of dry cloth that has managed to withstand the rain. They finally reach their waypoint beneath the old shaft tower. It is recognizable only as a looming shadow in the darkness.

A sharp Northwest is driving new rain clouds inland from the bay of Liverpool, cutting through their soggy chameleon cloaks with iron talons. Ron tries to huddle deeper in his dragon scale armour to conserve a last bit of fleeting warmth – a futile effort. He reaches out through the mind-crystal sticking behind his ear, which ties the whole task force together to one thinking unity with its low level Legilimency, and reports to Moody.

"Team Beta has made it through the outer wards apparently undetected and reached way point Beta-3. Commence attack?"

"Negative team leader. Team Alpha not yet there. Hold position and await further orders."

Ron grits his teeth and tries to ignore the streams of icy rain running down his back. He turns his head to survey his team. Under their chameleon cloaks they look like nothing so much as heaps of mining debris and rubble, recognizable as humans only to an alert watcher.

There is steady, reliable Seamus and the laconic Murdock McKenzie, still munching his toothpick; beside him, Sarah Doherty, no one is deadlier than her at throwing knives. They are his squad and he has laid his life in their hands a hundred times over. They have never let him down and he trusts them implicitly.

He is less certain about the other members of his team. The kid, whose name he has forgotten a minute after he had been told, – L something … Lionel, Liam, Lukas? – is supposed to be a top-notch curse breaker and Technomagi. He was already useful while navigating through the perimeter and will be so again when they will have to gain access to the security wards through the crystal ball, hopefully to be found in the barrack, which they are stalking. Still he will be most likely nothing more than a liability in the coming fight, and even worse – a liability that has to be protected.

The same cannot be said about Jeremiah Thompson, one of the most lethal warriors in the corps. Rumor has it; the last man to insult Thompson still hasn't been released from St. Mungos. Moody described him only as a "nasty, little hard-ass," which is high praise indeed, coming from the old son of a bitch. Even so Ron likes him little and trusts him less. He has heard rumours about the reasons for Thompson's sudden reassignment to this task force, just before the raid. Rumours about sexual assault against suspects and "excessive use of persuasion during interrogation," which means to say that he tortured the shit out of some poor sod. Even more telling is the fact that he actually got reprimanded for it, however slightly. In these dark times there are very few things an Auror can't do to a suspect.

Ron sighs heavily. He is two men short of full strength for his two squads. One of his team members is totally untested; another a loose cannon with sadistic tendencies. He iswet, cold, mud-sputtered and hungry. Not yet the fourth hour of the morning and already this is shaping up to be a great day.

They had left their Hippogriffs nearly ten miles to the west, out of detection range of the forward guardian wards and crept towards the mine under the cover of darkness. Fifty-seven heavily armed Aurors, 14 squads. A mile from the mine the battle group had split: the main force took attack positions just outside the perimeter wards, while the infiltration teams wormed their way in under the protection of their cloaks and Silencio amulets.

Currently Team Beta is huddled directly beneath the old shaft tower against the western wall of hulking brick building that might once have harboured the administration of the mine. On the south side a rectangular extension has been later added to the main body of the building, probably to serve as a guard house.

Built with a window directly next to the main door; it is ideally suited to control the coming and going of callers to the offices. Two other windows, set into the long side of the structure, are looking south over the yard; all three secured with heavy iron grates. He can feel the delicate cobweb of the strengthening charms in the rain slick, black-red brick walls – a sensation like warm honey running down the back of his neck. A cask of fire-oil would probably do nothing more than blacken the stones further.

Moody's orders interrupt his musings:

"All teams in position. Team Beta proceed."

Ron flexes his muscles, trying to warms his limbs; stiff from cold.

"All right people this is it. Sarah you take the sentry on the tower. The rest are with me. Remember this is strictly knife work, no spells, no wands unless it is that or die."

He doesn't wait for the chorus of assent, but reaches out along the link to Seamus only.

"Listen, mate: you look after the rookie. We need him alive and I don't trust him not to panic. If he decides to start throwing curses in the middle of the party, club him over the noggin. If he trips the magic detection wards, while we are still taking care of the guards, we are all fucked."

"Ohhh, splendid. Nursemaid has always been my dream job."

"At least your baby isn't a psychopath with a garrote. So stop whining unless you want to switch."

That shuts him up. Ron closes his link to him and addresses the rest of his team:

"Murdock, try and take a look inside. Kid, you stay with Seamus. Thompson you are with me. Move it!"

Sarah is already a quarter of the way up to the top, as they round the southwest corner of the main building. Barely visible black figures in a night full of shadows.

Warm light is falling out of guard house window, silvery laughter drifts to the men crouching beneath the windows. Ron watches as McKenzie closes his eyes and concentrates. He is gifted with a rare variety of the Animagi talent. In a limited range he can posses any kind of non-sapient animal, control it and see with its eyes, even feel the life-force and therefore the location of humans and other mammals to a certain extent.

A few heartbeats later Ron receives a picture through the Legilimency link: All colours leech out or turn into a hundred shades of grey, the angles subtly wrong but still recognizable as the interior of a room, presumably the guard house. Ron suppresses a sigh of relief. At least this time the animal had only two eyes. He once took a glimpse through the eyes of housefly, with Murdock's help, and the memory alone is still enough to make him nauseous.

There are three people inside: Two leaning against a long table in front of the windows that holds half a dozen crystal balls, serving as monitor stations, probably for the outer perimeter wards; the third dozing in an armchair in front of the fireplace.

His men function like clockwork. Seamus and the rookie take the first window, Murdock the third, Ron finds himself squatting under the second with cold-eyed Jeremy Thompson.

Ron doesn't hurry with the flask clipped to his belt. Basilisk venom will eat through anything that isn't Basilisk bone; there are no known antidotes and exactly two types of people that can deal with this substance: the very careful and the dead. Still applied correctly it has its uses: The black iron of the window hinges, spell reinforced, will pose no more of a hindrance for the foul stuff than soft cheese.

The venom has made good progress with the hinges, quietly sizzling, by the time Murphy's Law finally takes effect and the guard on duty decides he absolutely can't go another minute without fresh air.

Throwing open the casement with gusto the guard is more than a little surprised when it breaks clear of its hinges. Ron narrowly avoids getting his head bashed in by the heavy iron grate, only to find himself practically nose to nose with a lanky, young man leaning out of the window, slack jawed by alarm.

They both jerk back reflexively like teenagers that have been caught in the act by their parents. Someone emits an embarrassingly shrill squeak. ( The Death Eater of course, no son of Arthur Weasley squeaks or squeals or yelps. Especially not _this_ son. ) In any other situation the look of utter confusion on the guard's face might have been comical.

"What the fuck – ?"

He never finishes his question. Thompson lunges forward with the speed of a striking snake; his garrote a flash of crimson in the firelight. The guard's eyes widen in panic as the wire draws tight around his throat, silencing his cry of alarm before it can leave his mouth. Thompson throws his weight backwards and the man is jerked face first out of the window into the night.

Ron ribs his goblin-forged knife free from its leg sheath and vaults the window ledge. Thanks to his cramped muscles, he very nearly twists an ankle while landing, but manages to catch himself. His remaining momentum carries him forward, barreling into the soft body of a young woman. For a split second, a moment suspended in time like a fly in amber, their eyes meet and he is enthralled by their beauty. The colour of polished mahogany wood, flecked with amber and ochre and a hundred shades of molten gold, a galaxy of fairy dust suspended in velvet brown.

Then the spell is broken, time resumes its normal course. She scrambles away from him and lunges for the controls of the crystal balls – a long console made of black witchwood inset with strange levers, instruments of polished brass and gemstone buttons, in all colours of the rainbow – either to sound an alarm or to reach for some unseen weapon. There is no time for thinking, he runs on automatic. Hooking an arm around her waist, propelling her through a half circle and throwing her up against the far wall, none of it requires a conscious thought. He is upon her before she can regain her footing, driving the knife between her ribs with the whole weight of his body behind the blow. She crumbles again the wall; instinctively he slides an arm around her to support her. She reminds him of someone and that irritates him because he cannot place her. He can't. She doesn't look like her. She doesn't. Not at all.

Her lips move and a wet gurgling sound is emitted from her throat. His blade must have pierced a lung. He doesn't know what she wants to say and he never will, fore when she opens her mouth nothing comes out but blood.

"Are you kissing that bird or killing her, Your Grace1?"

Ron turns his head to find Seamus standing next to him, red dripping from his blade. The third Death Eater has died in his chair without waking, throat slashed from ear to ear. Murdock has taken guard position at the door, leading deeper into the building. The kid is already bent over the console, holograms and diagrams flickering in and out of existence in the air above it.

"You and your bonny kinda looked like the bloke and his bird from the poster of the movie, this girl I once knew dragged me into … wind something. _Break a Wind_, _Close to the Wind_ or so. If you grew a poncy little mustache, it would be a perfect match. Whole thing was a terrible experience really, the bint cried into her handkerchief the whole evening. Crime against mankind these chick-flicks. If a girl should ever try to strong arm you into watching one, run for the hills mate."

Ron gives him a cold glare that wipes the grin right off his face. He gently lowers the corpse in his arms to the ground and yanks his knife free.

"Fascinating. Now is there a reason you are telling me this?"

Seamus sniffs huffily.

"I was just trying to impart some of my hard earned wisdom on the young and needy, but seeing that I'm not wanted…"

Sometimes the only way to deal with the Irishman is to ignore him. Turning away from Seamus Ron addresses the youngest member of his squad:

"How is it going…" Lincoln, Lance, Lou… good grief Lorenzo? "…kid?"

"Already deactivated the perimeter wards Your Grace1. Give me five minutes and we won't need the fire oil for the doors."

"Will they notice that you are fiddling with their wards?"

"I know my job. If they have a real artist at the Central Control Spell and if he is paying attention, they will notice. Unlikely but not impossible."

_Better not waste any time_. A short check-up through the Legilimency link shows him that Sarah has dispatched the lookout and taken his post. From her point of view the mine is silent and shadowed, nothing moves in the darkness and the rain. Thompson … Thompson does not answer his call.

Ron bites back an oath and hurries to the window. No matter the rumours, no matter his dislike for the man; Thompson is a member of his team, his well-being Ron's responsibility.

He can still feel his team mate's presence at the other end of the link, so he isn't dead at least, maybe unconscious, maybe injured, maybe just preoccupied.

He leans out of the window. What he sees next will stay with him for the rest of his life.

Thompson is whole and healthy. In fact he seems to enjoy himself. For the first time since Ron has known him his face holds an actual emotion: Eyes shining with ecstasy, face contorted in the rigor of an impending orgasm.

It's the perverted caricature of a loving embrace. The Death Eater 's head rests against Thompsons's chest, hands clawing at his throat, feet kicking feebly. The wire of the garrote is drawn taut around the victim's neck – but not tight enough to grant a quick death.

All available nightmare clichés have apparently decided to forego their weekly pint in the pub to pop in on him: The very air has turned into viscous syrup, his legs refuse to move. When his limbs start to cooperate again, his rage is cold and sharp like an ice dagger.

Ron drives his knife upwards through the maxilla of the tortured man and watches as his struggle ceases. Something, some emotion is visible in the moribund man's eyes, as their light dims and dies – maybe relief, maybe accusation, or maybe gratitude. Ron cannot decide which would be worst and wants none of it anyway.

Thompson rolls his victim's body off him and springs to his feet. The man has something of a coiled snake about him.

Ron has to fight the urge to cut his throat and be done with him with all his might. Murder is temptingly easy on a battlefield. His team would have his back. No one asks inconvenient questions about surplus corpses in a war zone.

But then that is the problem in a nutshell. They have all become too accustomed to following orders without asking, without thinking. To killing without remorse. He will see the sick fucker dead, but it will be done the proper way: With lawyers and judges and a trial. More importantly there will a Dementor's kiss waiting and if anyone can give _them_ indigestion it's this bloody asshole. He really doesn't want to think about it, but the clinical, detached part of his brain is also distinctly aware of the fact that the task force is already dangerously undermanned on a mission deep in enemy territory. The squad will need Thompson's experience, his cold-bloodedness in the coming fight.

"Leave the garrote. Get inside and await further orders. Now."

Thompson obeys without comment. Perhaps he feels instinctively how fragile the calm exterior is, how deep and deadly the abyss beneath.

Ron picks up the abandoned assassin's weapon. Not the normal piano wire but barbed wire – naturally. Cruel steel needles twisting like grasping talons. He thinks of his brother's hands – black-red with dried blood where his nails had dug into the skin. They needed to break his fingers with pry bars to open his fists. He thinks of cities burning, of great funeral pyres painting the horizon in colours of blood and flame. He drops the wire and walks away, in his mouth the taste of cold ash.

Tense silence receives him on his return to the guard house. Seamus and Murdock are both giving him questioning looks, feeling that something significant just transpired, but now is not the time. They have a job to do.

"Mission lead, here Beta lead. Wards are down, position secured."

"About time, team leader. We are proceeding according to plan. Get your ass in gear and do your part."

Ron smiles darkly. So Moody isn't a happy camper. Well big surprise, his day wasn't all sugar and spice either. Maybe he _could_ get away with decapitating his commanding officer. But then again such behaviour is generally frowned upon during a mission. They might turn him over to the Dementors and their tender mercies – or even inquire after all his unpaid tabs in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Are you finally done with the access spells?"

The kid wisely keeps his mouth shut and only throws a notebook to him in response. Ron snatches the squealing thing out of the air and turns towards the door.

"I must strongly protest against this treatment! I am a Personal Ally Against All Ailments – Wizarding or otherwise – a product of highly complex charm work. I will have you know my warranty does not cover this kind of abuse. Additionally…"

The blasted thing doesn't even have a mouth but manages nonetheless to produce a noise level to rival the twins at their worst.

"Listen, because I will only say this once. If you don't shut your trap right now, I will personally see to it that you are converted to bum fodder. Now open that door."

He meets Seamus eyes and suddenly he has to fight hard to suppress manic laughter. Here he stands arguing with megalomaniac post-it note, while infiltrating a heavily guarded Death Eater stronghold, not to mention plotting the execution of one of his soldiers.

The humour is laced with black tendrils of gut wrenching fear and loathing for the war and the world; the things he has done and seen and not prevented; the people they were supposed to protect but didn't. Bitterness is oozing from his heart like puss from an open wound.

They are here to kill people they have never met. Kill them in their sleep on orders from men he despises, for a ruling class he no longer feels any loyalty for. They are young men still, some of them have yet to kiss a girl, but they have already killed and murdered – and some of them may not live to see the dawn. One may as well laugh as long as one can, for the alternative to laughter is bottomless despair and madness, slow poison for the soul.

He presses the notebook against the door and whispers an Ineo Incatatem, activating the charms bound to the booklet.

The kid has done beautifully; the self-contained key charm he placed on the notebook is working flawlessly. Complex Arithmancy diagrams and runes flicker and disappear above the paper. Short lived silver apparitions spun from moonshine and spider silk. The heavy iron door first turns cherry red then to a warm butter yellow before it swings open without a sound.

Seamus and Thompson take guard positions on either side of the opening, war-wands at the ready, but the revealed corridor is dark and deserted.

It shouldn't be possible for a PAAAA to look smug because it has no facial features whatsoever, but somehow this one manages just that. Ron returns it to the owner with no little irritation.

"Take the goddamned thing and unlock the main door. Murdock, Seamus look after him. Sarah will cover you from above if there is trouble but don't you dare to go looking for it. No one moves until Moody is here."

McKenzie gives him an irritated eye-roll but otherwise refrains from comment about his mothering. The three disappear quickly into the night while Thompson and Ron settle down to wait for Moody and his troops.

Time stretches in the darkness like spider silk. Empires rise and fall in the space of a heartbeat. Mountains are whittled away to sand. Hours (years, centuries?) later the night ripples. Outside the windows shadows and vapours materialize into human form, darkness made flesh. It's a sight fit to make man's blood run cold. Ron wonders briefly if that was the way the girl saw him. A creature of twilight, shifting in and out of sight; a ghostly apparition, lizard-like in his dragon-bone helmet; silent death coming through the windows with a blade in hand. He sighs and returns his attention to watching the corridor. He is waxing poetic and that's never a good sign

His clock tells him that only fifteen minutes have elapsed since he gave the attack order. This means that either his time-piece is broken – again – or they are making better time than anticipated. Suspicion rears its ugly head. In his opinion there is nothing scarier than a smoothly progressing plan.

Seamus returns with the rest of the team and half a dozen obsidian spheres gingerly pressed against his chest. A grinning skull and a blazing flame are engraved on the containers.

"Here, courtesy of Mad Eye. We are to clean up the barracks in the second quadrant and then to converge on the storage room from the southwest. He said he wanted to keep the notebook for when they reach the Central Control Spell and I wish him joy of it. I will never understand why people actually pay for these things; if they want a full-time pain in the neck I could direct them to several – absolutely free of charge." He offers Ron four of the ominous globes, only to be genially ignored.

"Here you are, Your Grace1. Take the blasted things already, will ya?"

"Nope."

"What do you mean, nope?"

"As you said Seamus, Weasley is your King1 and one perk of being monarch is, you can make some sucker carry your insanely dangerous potions."

"I'm feeling the love, alright."

Aurors are streaming into the safe-house through both doors. Gloomy corridors and dank empty rooms await them. Ron has taken point. His squad follows on his heels. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, he is sweating heavily, draughty hallways and sopping wet clothes notwithstanding. It is the fourth hour of the morning, the dark and silent time when the human sleep cycle is farthest from awareness and nearest to the abyss. Body temperature and brain activity drop to a dangerous low. A little further and you could feel the ferryman breathing down you neck. It is the hour of assassins, poisoners and secret murder.

The hour of the wolf has begun.

His squad has very nearly reached their assigned target when all hell breaks loose.

They are less then five steps from the door to the Death Eater's sleeping quarters, when a middle-aged, balding man rounds the corner in front of them. He is obviously still half asleep, struggling to close his fly after his visit to the loo, probably longing to return to his warm bed. Beneath their chameleon cloaks they are practically invisible in the blackness. There is no way in hell he will notice them, not if doesn't literally stumble over one of them – which he does. The kid freezes with fright like a deer in the headlight. Ron can only look on open-mouthed as the rookie tumbles to the floor with a squeal like a frightened mouse, as the Death Eater stands over him eyes wide with shock. For a heartbeat the bald man is frozen to the spot, trying to work out in what the hell he has actually tripped over. When he understands, when he sees them emerge like grey ghosts from the darkness, when he finally whirls around to run for his life, screaming bloody murder, it is far too late for him.

Ron has already raised his war-wand, three feet of black witch-wood with a basilisk tooth core.

He reaches out for that place where possibility collapses into being, where might be/is/was aren't further apart than the thickness of a shadow. His wand focuses his will like a burning glass and he _twists_ the possibility wave, forces the ever changing face of maybe into a chosen path. Somewhere on another plane of existence his body hisses a _Sectumsempra. _

The man's screams for help are abruptly silenced. His momentum carries the Death Eater half a dozen steps further before his knees give out and the severed head rolls of his shoulders like a badly balanced bowling ball, eyes starring in mute accusation. Blood squirts from the cut arteries, painting the walls with a red Rorschach-test.

Somewhere in the building a war horn is sounded, calling the sleepers to arms and the Aurors are all suddenly very busy staying alive.

Seamus is already extending his arm to open the door, when it is pushed open from the inside and a bleary faze appears in the doorway.

"What the ... who the hell are you?"

"Why it's me dad. Don't you recognize your only son? I brought presents."

"_What_?"

"That."

Seamus throws the black globe of a fire-oil grenade at him, which his opponent instinctively catches. A split second later he stumbles backward in a shower of blood and splintered teeth because Thompson has smashed the butt of his war-wand into his face. Somebody inside is thinking faster than his unfortunate brother in arms: A ball of Witching-fire misses Seamus by inches, because Ron pulls him backward at the last moment. It hits the far wall and sprays the Aurors with splinters of red-hot rock.

Murdock slams the door; a quickly conjured dragon flame fuses it to the frame. The gate is made of old oak and black iron, without spell reinforcement, it won't hold a determined wizard for more than a minute at most. This is more than enough time because the grenade will blow in less than twenty seconds.

His men are already diving for whatever cover they can reach. And not a second too early, Ron is still running for the alcove he intends to use for shelter, when a giant's fist sends him cart-wheeling down the hallway.

When he returns to his senses the door has been cleanly blown of its hinges, fires are flickering in the smoke filled darkness behind the empty archway. The stones of the corridor are sot stained, cracked by the heat for several yards. Around him his men are stumbling to their feet and picking their way through the debris. Thompson is limping and Murdock is gingerly examining his shoulder but their armour has shielded them from the worst.

"Wohooo, what a ride mate! What a ride! That's what I'm talking about mate." No it's not an illusion. Seamus is indeed bouncing around like a squirrel with a severe sugar rush. Ron sighs resignedly and adds a possible acute head trauma to his list of worries.

Murdock moans quietly and rotates his wrist tentatively, "I'm getting to old for this shit."

"One is never too old for some fun, though you might just be the exception that proves the rule." Seamus informs them, grinning manically.

"I think you hit your head, git." The old veteran retorts levelly.

"And what consequence might that possibly have apart from rustling the straw in there?" Ron interrupts them acidly. He really has no patience left to deal with two capering idiots.

Speaking of idiots:

"You, moron. Heel!"

The kid indeed looks uncannily like a whipped puppy as he slinks towards his battle leader.

"Boss, I…"

"Shut your gob! I'm talking and I really have no patience for your excuses. I just want you to know, that if Mad-Eye hasn't got to the main dormitory before the alarm went up, you just might have killed us all with your stunt. Now go away. Take guard position with Thompson and try not to faint if you see a Death Eater, alright? Thompson you take point. Go on, piss off."

"Don't be to hard on him. It's his first time. Virgins are known to be a bloody business."

Seamus wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Ron rolls his eyes but still has to bite back a grin at the crude double entendre.

"How would _you_ know, you wanker? Did you bleed the first time you molested your uncle's goats?"

"Now look here my dear Ronniekins, I will have you know…"

Whatever Seamus intends to tell him is lost in the thunder of a second explosion. When the debris has stopped falling, he scrambles to his feet and does a quick head count.

Murdock gives him a questioning look, "The dormitory?"

"Not big enough. That was the north-western guard house. We have to get a move on. Anyone still alive in there Sarah?"

Doherty shakes her head, while climbing the rubble pile in the doorway.

"All crispy."

"There wasn't a second explosion. We were too early."

It is quite clear what Murdock is saying. Moody was supposed to blow the main dormitory first, giving the signal for the all-out attack. If he didn't manage that, they might be up against a two-score of heavily armed Death Eaters out for blood.

"Keep your pants on Gentlemen. His grumpiness told me he intends to use the Gorgon Breath. That wouldn't make any noise now, would it?"

"That's nasty shit." Murdock is none to pleased and with good reason. Once released Gorgon Breath is nearly impossible to control. Travelling with the wind, it knows no mercy neither for friend nor foe. Even their armour won't protect them then.

"I thought we agreed the risk for our own is too great."

"Moody apparently reconsidered."

"Oh your powers of deduction and analysis leave me truly speechless, Seamus. What I want to know you imbecile: When was this decided and why do I hear about it only now?"

"Uhh sorry. I forgot, Moody told me when I got the grenades." Seamus smiles sheepishly.

"You forgot?"

"Well there was this really pretty witch in Moody's squad and I …"

"For Merlin's sake, if you could only for five consecutive minutes stop thinking with your dick! On second thought scratch that. At least your dick is able to string together a whole thought; which is more than I can say for your head."

"Now that was genuinely unkind."

He decides to treat this feeble minded rejoinder with the contempt it deserves and ignores it:

"Is there anything else I should know about? Like what should have been the signal to strike? And how much did you get when you sold your brain. Cause I want a percentage, seeing that I'm going to suffer for your transaction."

"He just said to give him 20 minutes if there aren't any explosions."

A quick look on his clock tells him that more than half an hour has elapsed since they left the guard house but it is impossible to say how much of this time they spend arguing in this blasted corridor.

"All right people. Let's move out."

They advance along the walls, ready to bath the hallway in dragon flame on a moment's notice.

Visibility in the debris strewn, gloomy corridors is down to less than five meters, thanks to thick clouds of dust hanging in the air, which is the reason Sarah very nearly blasts the figure, that suddenly emerges from an alcove. At the last possible moment Ron realizes that he can feel the man through his Legilimency-link and forces her wand upwards, so that the fireball slams into the ceiling.

"Sir." It is only a single syllable but Ron would recognize that contemptuous voice everywhere. He is already regretting that he hasn't let Sarah kill the bugger.

"Thompson. Where is the kid?"

The pale, little man jerks his head towards the corridor, leading further into the darkness.

"Went ahead to scout."

"He did what?"

"Went ahead, sir. Was very passionate about making amends, returning to your good graces. Sir."

"And you let him? You let the kid walk away with no one to look after him?"

"I was under the impression that he is a fully qualified Auror, sir. He will learn from his mistakes. It will be a valuable experience. Character forming."

Thompson is fast but he never even sees the fist that breaks his nose.

The little man smiles at him, his teeth red with blood trickling from his nose.

"What do you think I should have done then? The simpering idiot was so hell-bent on getting back into your good graces he left his post. I either had to put him into a full body bind or let him go."

"You have seniority, he was your responsibility. May the Lord have mercy upon you, because if we don't find him whole and healthy I will not."

There is new urgency to their steps as they hasten through abandoned chambers and empty rooms, following the footprints in the dust. The cold, analytical part of his mind notes with approval that the kid at least managed to stay on their planned approach. They won't lose anymore time on this foray. Repeatedly he reaches out through the Link but only silence answers his calls. That is not exactly unexpected, the walls of this building are so riddled with Strengthening Spells and Imperturbable Charms, anyone out of the line of sight might as well be dead.

Cold moonlight is falling through the high windows of a cavernous hall, illuminating faintly crane chains hanging from the ceiling, igniting a sea of empty dust in cold silver flames. Wrought-iron Galleries on three sides, casting twilight patterns on the floor; against the far wall stacks of barrels and bales like hulking monster shadows.

They have stopped their advance in an anteroom overlooking the chamber. The footprints clearly enter the hall, disappearing into the shadows and Ron is less than thrilled about it. No cover anywhere, plenty of dark corners to hide in, a clear field of fire. The whole set-up smacks of ambush. He exchanges glances with Murdock and Sarah and sees apprehension in their eyes. They feel it too. The knowledge of being stalked: Hackles rising, heartbeat thundering, all his senses — perfected during uncounted generations, while his ancestors ran from thousand fold death in dark African jungles — strained to utmost.

Something moves in the twilight and five war-wands whip up and take aim. A figure detaches itself from shadows pooling at the foot of the western wall and makes for the empty doorway in the opposing wall.

"Is it him?"

Well Murdock, that's the million galleons question, is it not? At night all coats are black. Their mystery man is visible only as a black silhouette. Ron desperately tries to establish a link but the results are inconclusive. He bites back an especially imaginative oath. The distance between them is less than 35 meters, he has a clear line of sight and he yet can't get a clear reading. This should be impossible no matter the wards and charms in the wall. Once again acquisitions were stingy with the budget and send them off to slaughter with third-rate gear. Which means he will, on his return to the Ministry march into the accounting department and kill anything that moves. On second thoughts this plan will probably result only in a lot of dead secretaries, bleeding on blissfully slumbering accountants, so he will have to work on that.

"We can't just let him walk away Your Grace," whispers Seamus.

Maybe not but the alternative is calling out to him, thereby betraying their position to anyone laying in ambush; endangering the whole team for one man. Assuming Mr X is actually the kid and not some Death Eater on a midnight stroll.

Ron bites down hard on his lip. Time is running short. Their unknown friend has nearly reached the doorway at the other end of the hall. One more try with the Legilimency-link and if it still doesn't work… Merlin's hairy balls he will have to take a chance and call out. The risk seems acceptable: If it is really a lone Death Eater it shouldn't be to difficult to kill him and there really is no way they can cross this chamber undetected by potential watchers anyway, so they won't lose too much by making their presence known.

Nonetheless, he sighs with relief when he finally establishes the link. Thanks to his intense efforts he overreaches and actually ends up in the kid's head. It's a very particular feeling to be a passenger in a body with full access to all senses but no control whatsoever over limbs or thoughts.

"Boss is that you?"

"Get out of there kid. Get out of there now!"

"What is this…?"

Ron senses more than he sees a movement from the corner of his eye – actually the eye belongs to kid, but no matter – and suddenly everything happens at once.

"AMBUSH!"

The kid whirls around and runs for his life. With deceptive slowness a ball of Witching-Fire emerges from the doorway. The lad dodges it with the agility of youth and counters the second with a shield charm, while jumping the crater left by the first.

Before the connection was severed by the shield spell Ron felt the adrenalin surge, the fear skittering perilously close to excitement, the vibrating vitality, the energy. For a few glorious seconds he thinks the boy might actually have a chance. His men are laying down heavy cover fire, burning white lightening and emerald green tongues of flame bath the far side of the chamber. Drops of molten iron and heated brick splinters spark and fill the air with deadly shrapnel.

It ends as abruptly as it has begun. A silver-light lance strikes from the darkness, knifing through the kid's shield charm like wet paper and smashing his left ankle. He collapses with a cry that contains more alarm than actual pain, trying to turn his fall into a roll, to re-erect his _Protego_ spell, to keep going. He has just made it to his knees when a blue-hot ball of Witching-fire slams into the visor of his helmet, melting the obsidian-crystal, searing the flesh beneath.

Even over the infernal crack and thunder of the war spells Ron can hear the howl of pure animal agony.

It is a time-honoured tactic among snipers everywhere: Wound a member of the enemy pack, display him as bait in a position where all advantages are yours. Wait. As like as not, his screams of pain will draw some soft-hearted idiot to his doom.

The intensity and number of flung curses lessens first, and then peters out completely. None of the opposing parties got a fix on the position of their enemies and there really is no point in continuing to destroy the opposite wall.

Silence returns to the chamber, apart from sobbing screams of their brother in arms. He is less than 25 meters from help but might as well be on the moon for all the good it does him.

Murdock is looking at him; they are all looking at him, awaiting his orders. Coldness takes hold of him, an icy certainty. There are no good choices here, no happy endings. Only a brother in agony. He can't remember his name. He was supposed to protect him, to bring him home and he can't even remember his name.

"If we…" Seamus's voice breaks and he has to start again, "If we were to combine our Shield Charms and rush them, maybe…maybe we could get to him."

Ron meets Murdock's eyes over the Irishman's head. The grizzled veteran shakes his head slightly – they both now it will not work.

But he wants to hear it. He _has _to hear it or he will not have the strength to do what's necessary.

"How many of the hoods are there, Murdock?"

The old man gives him a sad smile and no hope.

"Judging from their performance, at least four, maybe more. At least one of them is strong enough for the killing curse."

He doesn't add that charging under these circumstances is as good as suicide and he doesn't have to.

The noises, reaching his ears, slice into his soul. No human should ever produce such sounds.

"But… we can't just leave him there."

All the laughter has gone from Seamus, but he is right. They can't just leave him and they can't rescue him. Even if they could, any real medical help is many miles away and until the central control crystal ball is secured no one will be able to deactivate the Anti-Apparation wards. Their brother-in-arms is already dead. There is only one thing left to do: Ease his road to the ferryman.

"Lad, let me do it." Murdock has laid a hand on his forearm.

The first time since Ron has known him the face of the old soldier holds an emotion disturbingly akin to pity. And the only thing he hates – has hated since he was old enough to understand the words – more than charity — is pity. He shakes of the restraining limb and reaches for his wand.

He knows what he has to do. It is his duty and his alone.

The rest of his squad bears solemn witness, while Ron raises his war-wand and draws deeply on the things, hidden away in the abyss of his soul. Every insecurity, every slight, every taunt endured, all his self-hate, all his disgust for corrupt Ministry officials and sadistic Death Eaters, for the crimes committed by both sides in a war without mercy. Most of all for the things he has done, for small minded envy and bitter thoughts and secretly nursed grudges.

When everything you have is poured into a spell, what is left but emptiness?

_"_**_Avada Kedavra_**_"_

* * *

Authors Note: 

1.

My old man once told me: Son, if you have to _explain_ the punch line of your jokes… do everyone a favour and just shut up.

Yeah, thanks dad. Always nice to get some encouragement.

Anyway I _thought_ I was being perfectly until I got the first review asking why the hell I made Ron king. As a master of the glib and witty retort I promptly went: Eh? What the fuck are you talking about idiot?

Apparently I'm somewhat to subtle for my own good – or I just suck goldfish at writing, take your pick.

To make that perfectly clear: Ron isn't king of jack-shit. The "Your Grace" etc. is a teasing nick-name, a jibe referring to his less-than-glorious days as quidditch keeper in Hogwarts. Remember? Weasley is our king etc.? The Order of the Phoenix? The nick name was probably introduced by Seamus to annoy the shit out of our man and after a while it just stuck.

I really hate nothing more than an author addressing his readers directly – still until I find the time to edit this chapter I felt the need to clear this up.

Happy reading everyone. 


	2. My enemy, my friend

**AN: Hello? Anyone reading this thing? Or am I only talking to myself? Come on hit the review button, you know you want to.**

The deadly hush in the wake of the screams is lasting heavily on them. Counting… 189,190,191… The steady thumb of his heart, unimpressed, slow, regular – that seems wrong somehow. There should be some kind of sign, some stigma, saying I just killed a boy and can't remember his name. 208,209, 210…Larry, Levi, Logan – for the life of him he can't recall.

The ebb and flow of blood in his veins, utterly unconcerned by human tragedies and failings, is very loud in the lasting silence.

Finally Murdock hawks up phlegm and spits with feeling.

"All right then. We still have to get past the fuckers, if we want to reach Mad-Eye's boys."

Ron has to suppress a sudden surge of hatred for the old veteran for intruding on his self-pity. Of course Murdock is right, he can't sit here all day, twiddling his thumps – just a little bit longer. Surely that is not asking too much. Just a few seconds to regain his concentration so that he won't embarrass them all by bawling like a child that lost his lollipop. They will give him that.

"Boss?"

Apparently not. Sighing Ron peeks around the corner of the doorway. Apart from the smoke still rising from various craters, nothing moves. No sign of the Death Eaters, the hall is almost eerie in its tranquillity.

"Seamus, how many of your cigarette lighters are left?"

"All five ready for mischief."

Sarah is looking suspiciously at him, "What do have in mind, boss?"

Ron gives her a mirthless smile: "Why my dear. The hosts want to party, don't they? So let's not be killjoys. That would be bad manners. Let's bring down the fucking house."

Ten breathless, dusty minutes later Seamus and he are standing in a pitch black corridor, assiduously drilling holes in the ceiling with their wands and placing fire-oil grenades in them. It is slow, frustrating work – war-wands aren't really designed for anything but blowing things up.

"You sure we are beneath their positions now?"

"Reasonably sure."

He withdraws a memory crystal from his belt pouch and projects, with the flick of a wrist and a muttered spell, a map of the building on the wall.

"You gotta hand it to them, they sure know how to pick a spot."

Ron grunts noncommittally. There is indeed no way to circumvent the chamber, if they want to reach the depot, where the weapon shipments are allegedly stored, at least from their current position. But they were able to find an old cellar, probably once serving as a temporary storage facility for the mined coal, directly beneath the great hall.

"There we are."

Seamus places the last grenade in its blast-hole and steps back a satisfied grin on his lips:

"That will make a mighty bang."

"I hope so. Let's arm these things."

Five incantations later the fuses of the bombs are lit with the blue, flickering light of cold flame. In ten minutes the spells will run out – the flames will turn hot. 30 seconds after that, it would be very unhealthy indeed to linger here.

Seamus is giving him slightly worried glances:

"You sure we won't blow up the whole building? Five grenades at once, it's somewhat of an overkill, isn't it?"

"Don't soil your breeches. This thing is so riddled with wards and protection spells, it could withstand a dragon attack. The reason, why we decided not just to bomb the shit out of them in the first place, as you may recall?"

"Yes smart-ass, I do. But dragons seldom attack through the cellar, do they? Well with the exception of your mother perhaps. I swear Molly could make Balerion The Black Dread brush his teeth and gargle with mint extract." Seamus retorts.

Hurriedly they retract their steps through dust and darkness. The silver rays of their wand-tips are throwing dancing shadows on black stone walls, painting some objects in bright white light, immersing others in gloom. Figures and unformed shapes shift in and out of sight, obscured by flowing dust clouds. They are both quite relieved when they reach the rest of the squad keeping watch at the chambers. At least the dangers there are tangible. A Death Eater might kill you but he won't send a host of your fears against you to breed and fester in the dark corners of your imagination.

"Any activity?"

"Quiet as a grave." Sarah winces when she realizes her rather unfortunate choice of words and hurriedly soldiers on: "Murdock here found us a cosy little hideaway for the big bang."

"Broom closet looks like," the veteran interrupts her. "Thirty meters down the hall. Thick walls. Small. Very little ceiling to fall in on us. Did a few additional strengthening charms on it. Should do the job nicely."

"Three minutes left, let's make ourselves at home then."

They crowd into the musky darkness, squatting shoulder to shoulder and layering shield charms around them. Sarah, the last one in, closes the thick iron door behind her and puts several Impenetrable-spells on it.

"Wouldn't we look stupid, if a Hood happened to come by and find us penned up here like suckling pigs?"

"Your hypothetical Death Eater better hurry because he has 30 seconds left to find himself a shelter Seamus."

13, 12, 11… He is counting heartbeats again. Sheltering his head beneath his arms, he draws deep on the power of the well inside him, puts as much strength in his shield as he can. He feels the World-Wave oscillate wildly, the warm rush of power as his squat mates do the same.

3, 2, 1 … at first he is half afraid that the grenades didn't blow, that a Death Eater popped out of some chink in the masonry, as soon as his back was turned and defused them. Then the floor buckles like an angry horse, the walls groan and great clouds of dust well up. Almost like an afterthought, a few chunks of mortar and brick bounce of the shield charms.

"That's it? Almost…anticlimactic."

"I wasn't aware you even knew words with that many syllables, Seamus."

"He doesn't, but all his women say that on the morning after. Ole Seamus probably thinks it is a compliment."

"Oi! Quit harassing the poor Irishman, you fucking English imperialists."

A scene of destruction greets them outside the door. The partition wall between ante-chamber and storage hall has partially collapsed inwards. The far side of the great hall is reduced to pile of smoking detritus; the floor sagged into the cellar and a gaping hole opened in the roof. He isn't really expecting any resistance, but still scans the far wall intently. There—something moves in a pocket beneath the collapsed gallery. His pupils widen as his eyes try to penetrate the darkness.

"Somebody is still alive."

"What? We collapse half of the fucking building on their heads and they are still kicking? That's just inconsiderate, that is."

"There still might be resistance so we'd better proceed with caution…what is it with you, Seamus?"

The Irishman has turned deathly pale. Wordlessly the points to dark bundle lying in the rubble only a few meters away. He has known Seamus for nearly fifteen years and is distinctly aware, that the Irishman – contrary to popular opinion – seldom does anything without good reason.

Ron _Accios_ the mysterious objects and regrets it instantly.

The only reason he recognizes the kid is the remains of his dragon bone armour – no other Auror was killed here, so it can't be anyone else. He stares frozen with disgust and can't turn his eyes away from the ghastly mass of black-red flesh and charred bone. Still flames are flickering on the burned leftovers of his clothes.

"Is that… was that…"

"Yes."

For the first time this night Thompson, eyes gleaming, volunteers a commentary.

"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. I couldn't even say if that's a small cow struck by lightening or a big dog run over by a truck."

Murdock stares coldly at him; he doesn't raise his voice but his expression doesn't brook any argument: "Shut your mouth Thompson. Shut your fucking mouth and show some respect," says Murdock.

"You were saying about proceeding with caution?" Sarah probes after a lengthy silence.

"I was?" Ron gives her a smile sharp as a rapier. "I have changed my mind. Let's just charge and kill the fuckers."

Still there are certain preparations to be made. After all he wants to massacre the Hoods, not die himself with a look of righteous wrath on his face in this god-forsaken hall. That would look downright stupid.

They draw deep on the power of the Wave. They don't rush: It needs concentration and patience to properly cast an _Animabilis_ spell, if done wrong it will kill you just as dead as an _Avada Kedavra_.

He focuses inwards, listens to in-and-out of his breath, the quite rush of blood in his veins, the mysterious workings of his body. The spell takes hold and a dizzying mixture of smells, flashes of colours, and feelings explodes in the back of his head, when it opens the gates to that place beyond knowing, beyond instinct, where the well of his magic pulses in timeless concert with the whisper of the Wave. He reaches into that pandemonium and twist _here_, while applying pressure just _there_. He doesn't really know, what is actually happening inside his body; Hermione tried to explain using words, sounding vaguely like skin diseases proteins and amino acids and the like. He was left with the nebulous impression of drunk gnomes, wildly capering around and manning tiny levers inside him.

The effects in contrast are immediate and palpable: Heartbeat like rolling thunder, blood turning to liquid fire, all senses unnaturally sharp. He feels strong enough to take on a troll and for the duration of the spell, he probably could. On his command the squad bursts forth from their position, madly dashing for the other end of the hall. They are slower than a Hippogriff at full speed but not by much. There will be a price to pay later of course, human bodies are not fit to run at more than 40 miles per hour, but for now, zigzagging across the hall at breakneck speed, they are nearly impossible to hit, which is entirely the point of this exercise.

They are less than ten meters from the former Death Eater positions, when it becomes apparent that his caution was not without reason.

Three emerald green lightning bolts strike out in rapid succession from a pocket in the rubble.

He evades the killing curse with a desperate diving roll and keeps running as fast as his legs will carry him. Whoever their adversary is, he is strong, immensely so, but unless the grave worms got sick of Voldemort's snake-ass and evicted his corpse from its burial lair or Harry has finally gone completely around the bend and decided to join the Death Eaters just to piss him off, Ron has a breather of at least ten to twenty seconds. No one else but those two has the raw power to rapid-fire killing curses and do anything but pant and/or faint for the next minute.

Jumping on the last rubble heap, obstructing his field of fire, he immediately hits the figure cowering in the debris with everything he has. Murdock and Thompson follow suit. Half a dozen fireballs burst against the shield, that wavers and … holds.

It's the first time he gets a good look at the Death Eater – a short, heavyset young man, more leaning than sitting against a heavy iron beam, his right leg buried in the rubble, the left, judging by its odd angles, broken at least three times.

Something cold slithers in the pit of his stomach. Just who is this podgy, little gnome anyway? Three trained Aurors are hammering on his shields, the man has a smashed leg, and performed three killing curses not a minute earlier. By rights it should be over in a matter of seconds. Apparently their friend hasn't read the same script as Ron, as he shows no inclination to lay down and die.

Streams of sweat are running down Murdock's face, Thompson is his customary thin-lipped self, but his hands tremble as he gasps out incantation after incantation.

This is becoming ridiculous. If they can't overwhelm him before the after-effects of the _Animabilis _spell set in, they might just become the first squad in the history of the corps vanquished by a single, injured foe.

All right then, perhaps a different tack. With a muttered _Legilimens_, he extends his mental probes into the darkness like Harry showed him a lifetime ago in the sun-drenched apple orchards behind the Burrow. There is the whirling, colourful maelstrom known as Seamus; well-oiled gears, levers and camshafts smoothly turning, steady and dependable, that is Murdock; the whiff of something rotten, ominous creaking sounds like ice over a dark and bottomless mere: Thompson.

And there, cold fortress walls, obsidian and black steel: The Death Eater. His probes slide over the Occlumency barriers softly like butterfly wings, searching, feeling for a crack, some sort of weak point.

As careful as he is, somehow his opponent feels his probing and attacks with white-hot needle of pain. Ron brings his shields up just in time to prevent anything worse than a severe headache and retaliates with a few choice memories of encounters with Voldemort.

At that moment Seamus joins the fight by sending a flaming Manticore, a creature conjured from Blackfyre and controllable only by borderline Dark Magic, against the enemy's defences, and Ron feels the Occlumency walls tremble as the Death Eater deals with the additional strain on his _Protego_ charms. The youngest Weasley son has never been prone to look a gift horse in the mouth; he forms his will, his need and determination into a spearhead and _pushes_ with all his might.

The weakened barriers give way, faster than anticipated and he overreaches in his eagerness. For a heartbeat he is the Death Eater. He is Thomas Tumbleton (his mother used to call him pumpkin and he really hated that, but never said anything because her tired, careworn face lit up like the summer sun when she did.) and Thomas is him, privy to all thoughts and memories and dreams. They are Ron-and-Thomas and neither can really say where one begins and the other ends.

He is nine and hungry but what little food there is will go to his sick, little brother. His sister is crying herself to sleep in the bed next to his. She quarrelled with mother earlier that evening, he just doesn't understand why. She brought home food and money, a _whole_ galleon but instead of being thankful and merry mum had a screaming fit and threw everything out. Hollered something about she doesn't want anything that is earned in this manner, whatever that is supposed to mean. He would be furious with her, if she hadn't looked so defeated. That look makes him want to pummel somebody, it really does, but the world takes no notice of a nine-year-old boy's impotent fury or his mother's grieve.

He is seven and has just crashed Fred's broom. He didn't mean to, just wanted to try flying for once. It ain't so as if Fred has never done anything forbidden. Far from it! But now Fred is furious and the things he said… they are just not true. His mother did want him. Did and does! He wasn't just an unfortunate accident, while they were really waiting for Ginny. His mum loves him, probably more than stupid Fred. She does!

He is eleven and furious. Chandler, the old swine, has just reduced their wages – again and they hardly scrap by as it is, but no one will care because his mother is a clan-less half-breed and Chandler – well he might be a half-blood too, but he belongs to the old mercantile families, their Gringotts vaults are stuffed with gold and the ministry hops when they snap their bejewelled fingers.

He is fourteen and envy gnaws at his heart. He knows his parents don't think of him as a disappointment – at least he is reasonably sure. Everything he has ever done has already been done better by his brothers. He was always the quietly sarcastic, the dependable and non-descript one, wedged between the two biggest attention seekers in the history of magic and the baby, that everyone dotes on. So it isn't surprising that no one pays him any attention. It isn't _personal_. And if he should sometimes, in the darkest corners of his mind, entertain the thought, that his whole family prefers Harry to him… well, that would be just plain wrong and small-minded and petty, because at least his parents aren't dead and no dark wizard is out for his blood. His friendship with Harry means the world to him and he would terribly miss him, if he should suddenly drop of the face of the earth. So he doesn't really – mostly – mean it when he wishes he had entered another compartment on his first year. It is just that sometimes…

He is sixteen and numb. He is the breadwinner in the family now. He has never known his father, Helen is long gone and now mum is very ill, dying probably. This morning she couldn't get up and coughed blood. Twenty years of backbreaking work in 'Charmed luxury furniture (est. 1723), Sir Jonathan Chandler.' will do that for you. All because the bloody arsehole couldn't be bothered to cough up a few galleons for protection-charms against the saw dust and the poisonous vapours. They have no money for medicine, so he will have to go looking for a second job in the evening, maybe after the assembly in the Hangman's Daughter. Aaron said some guy wants to speak about what could be done against the moneybags that make the ministry dance.

He is nineteen and full of hate. Those murderous arseholes have killed his brother. They didn't just murder him – oh no, not them. They made him suffer. He has seen what was left of his brother, when they prepared him. They couldn't let Mum or Ginny look at him until … until a few of the more creative things, which had been done to him, were covered up. He wants to find the bastard responsible and rip his beating heart out of his chest, to see if it is black and rotten. He doesn't care what laws have to be passed to make that happen. Hermione can talk about civil liberties, freedom of the press and due process until she is blue in the face. He doesn't give a flying fuck about that. He just wants them dead. He will kill them. He will.

She is dead. Mum is dead and no one could care less. When a harried healer finally looked in on them the black fungi had already taken hold in her lungs and no potion could rescue her. Tomorrow he will bring his siblings to Aunt Cristiana and then search out the guy from the pub. He has his card around here somewhere. Aaron said he might join him too. He doesn't quite understand the political stuff about blood purity – who determines who is pure enough and who isn't – but apparently he is and that will do for now. The main point is that someone will show the mercantile clans, the captains of industry and their puppets in the ministry, that they aren't just ants under their feet. He will show them. He will.

A supernova of pain explodes behind his eyes, there is a moment of disjointedness, an odd feeling of detachment, while balancing over a bottomless abyss. A tidal wave of velvet blackness surges up and swallows him whole.

Then nothing.

* * *

"Boss."

Someone is patting his check and he really wishes the idiot would stop because every pat feels like a hammer blow, adding to the exquisite agony that threatens to split his skull apart.

"Come on fearless leader. Up you go."

Ron opens his eyes a crack and immediately regrets it. Light is stabbing into his head like silver needles. He turns his head and throws up – right over Seamus's boots.

"Welcome back boss. You had us worried there for a second, " his friend stoops and cleans some vomit of his left boot, "but I see you have retained your charming personality."

"You know git, I have never awakened to an uglier face than yours. It almost makes me long to be unconscious, again."

Seamus grin is so wide it threatens to split his head in two. "Conscious for five seconds and already insulting me, yes, he will be all right lads."

"What the hell happened anyway?"

"Uhh… about that…"

"Yeah?"

"Well, Murdock kind of blew your head off."

Ron gingerly runs a hand through his hair. No, nothing missing.

"Seamus, contrary to popular opinion I'm normally not thinking with my dick. I'm still talking; there are no holes in my head that shouldn't be there. Conclusion: You are not making a whole lot of sense here."

"Well not your head, but you were in it."

Three, two, one… deep breath. "Come again?"

Murdock has been silently hovering in the background until now. But apparently he had all the insane babbling he can stand. Ron can't exactly blame him.

"Well the Death Eater's shield suddenly collapsed. I felt your _Legilimency_-attack, but didn't stop to think. Just used the opportunity and hit him hard. We think you were still connected with him when he died. Sorry."

Everything is moving too fast, Ron tries to sit up and the world starts spinning around him.

"Wait a minute. Thomas is dead?"

Murdock gives him a questioning glance.

"That the Death Eater? Yeah, dead as a doornail."

He tries to stand but only manages to awkwardly plumb on his arse. The after-effects of the _Animabilis_ spell have taken full effect and he is ravenous and weak as a kitten. Murdock silently offers him a flask of _Satur_-potion. Ron grimaces but swallows the vile brew obediently. At least it will take the edge of his hunger and return same strength to his limbs.

"Where's the rest of them?"

"Sarah found one; squashed to pulp beneath a steel beam. The others are still buried in the rubble."

Ron offers the flask to Seamus, who refuses:

"Very considerate, old chap, but we all had our dose of horse-piss. What's left is for your enjoyment only."

Grunting and leaning heavily on Murdock's shoulder he finally manages to stand on his own two feet and nearly topples head over heels in the giant hole, where the hall floor collapsed into the cellar.

"God lord."

"Yep. There is even a tunnel down there. It was walled up, but the explosions made it accessible."

"You been sightseeing?"

"A man's gotta to do something, while you had your beauty sleep your grace."

"Is at least somebody guarding the exit?"

"Sarah and Thompson."

"Keep an eye on them Seamus, I can't have them killing each other until we are done here. We will be along shortly."

Seamus seems curious, but thankfully doesn't ask what's keeping Ron. Wordlessly he turns and disappears into the dark doorway.

It is only half a dozen steps to the nook where Thom… where the Death Eater died, nonetheless he is breathing heavily when he gets there. The corpse before him looks nothing like the bitter, young man, with which he shared memories and pain for the fraction of a second. Mainly because most of his head is missing. What is left resembles nothing so much as a squashed watermelon.

"He wasn't a terribly bad man, you know."

Murdock doesn't seem to be surprised in the least by his sudden announcement.

"Most aren't."

Ron looks upon the man he helped to kill and tries to conjure up the old familiar hatred; the righteous fury. Nothing; nothing but numbness. Suddenly he is very tired.

"Murdock, tell me we are the good guys."

The old man sighs quietly.

"Ronald, I just splattered the brains of a nineteen year old boy over these stones. You won't find that in any definition of good guys I have ever read."

"Ten minutes earlier _he_ burnt the face of seventeen year old and left him to die slowly."

"Yeah well, we had certain intentions concerning his health too, didn't we? I believe my cause justified, some of them do so too. I imagine one of us is wrong."

"Both, probably." Just saying it, hurts Ron in places, he has long thought dead and frozen - beyond feeling. But then again the Truth has always been a bitter draught.

Smiling mirthlessly Murdock agrees:

"Might be. Been a long time since any of us was innocent."

In pensive silence they head for the doorway. Their work isn't done yet.

* * *

"…and where were you while we battled the fatso of doom?" Voices are drifting down the hallway. Seamus is taking the mickey out of someone – probably Sarah. Of course sending the Irishman away to keep the peace, had just been an excuse, seeing that he is singularly ill-suited for such a task. Nonetheless Ron had hoped for more than two minutes peace until the taunts started.

"Guarding your back, so that no Death Eater could pop out of that tunnel and blow your skinny ass away Finnegan." On the other hand Sarah Doherty isn't exactly a gentle hot-house flower. Seamus will be quiet sorry, if he manages to make her truly angry.

"Thanks a lot. Whatever would we do without you Doherty?"

"Forgive me for thinking four, big, hairy men could handle one measly, little hood."

Murdock and Ron exchange glances.

"Well that didn't take long."

Ron grunts in agreement.

Murdock interrupts the bickering, with his best drill sergeant voice.

"Ladies may I remind you, we are still on a combat mission. So let's behave professional for a change, why don't we?"

Seamus turns and raises an eyebrow: "So, what's the plan your grace?"

Ron shrugs: "We proceed like we intended. If all went well Moody and his boys should already have mopped up whatever resistance there was."

"Yeah and if not, there might be half a legion of enraged Death Eaters waiting for us."

"Only one way to find out."

They haven't advanced more than 50 meters into the dark maze, when they are challenged. Thompson is the first to espy a movement further down the aisle. On his Legilimency-signal the squad takes cover in various alcoves and doorways, war-wands raised.

Ron reaches out through the mind-crystal, searching, hoping for the familiar feeling of a known consciousness. He can feel something, tickling his outermost probes, but inconclusive – once again. The youngest Weasley rolls his eyes resignedly; he has more or less given up on the notion, that equipment is supposed to work. They will just have to do it the old-fashioned way then.

A voice sounds from the darkness ahead: "Weasley is that you?"

"Hamish?" Ron has to suppress the first genuine grin of the night, as he relaxes the white-knuckled grip on his wand. His knees start to tremble, because his body comes down from its adrenalin high and he leans back against the cool brick walls.

"The one and only."

A lengthy pause, then Hamish continues:

"All right then. Which girl popped your cherry Ronniekins?"

His eyes pop wide open and for the first time in many years Ronald Weasley is at a loss for words. He expected to be questioned, that is standard procedure in a situation such as theirs and serves the protection of everyone.

Normally queries are asked only a squat-mate can answer to verify the identity of the attending Aurors. Only… nobody should know the answer to that one. He never told anyone and he doesn't exactly intend to do so now. Not anyone…but Seamus. Ron grits his teeth. The sneaky, little fuck has set him up. A thousand galleons that he put Hamish up to this stunt. He can practically hear the bastard sniggering. His friend has trapped him neatly; he can't even refuse to answer without risking a firefight with his own people. _Oh Seamus, you asshole I hope you realize that means war!_

"Madame Rosmerta," he whistles through his clenched jaw.

"What was that?"

"MADAME ROSMERTA! ALL RIGHT?"

A Cacophony of catcalls and rather _creative_ speculations about Rosmerta's presumably considerable skills in recreational activities answers him.

"Shut up. Everyone, SHUT THE FUCK UP! … All right then, my turn."

"Fire away Casanova."

"Which is the only confirmed hit our good friend Seamus ever scored?"

"Uhhh… wasn't that the pity-fuck with Pizza face? What was her name – Eloise something? Rumour has it Snape stumbled over them in the old closet in the west wing, while she was trying to bugger him with a broomstick."

"Rumours, obloquies invented by small-minded Englishmen, envious of my legendary prowess with the ladies."

Seamus's voice is practically trembling with indignation.

Hooting and roaring laughter fills the hallway. This story is an old favourite of the corps. It has been told, retold and embellished in locker rooms and pubs all over Britain.

"That's enough people. On the count of three squad leaders will leave their cover and meet half-way. You ready Hamish?"

"Do the honours."

"Three, two, one, now."

Ron has already holstered his war-wand, stepping out of his alcove he raises his hands and conjures a glow ball over his head. Another ball of silver light winks into existence further down the corridor and comes up to meet him.

Hamish's grin is wide enough to land a war-dragon in it.

"Rosmerta? Well, I never! Who would have thought you the type to go after a mature woman? Tell me is it true she can do with amazing trick with her…"

"Only one word more and you will die a very unpleasant death indeed."

"My, my aren't we touchy."

"Where is Moody?"

"He is expecting you in the control centre; sent us out to pick you up. You are somewhat late to the party."

"Yeah. Had some trouble on the road. We left a man back there, can you bring him in?"

All hints of merriment abruptly disappear from their conversation.

"Who?"

"The Kid." A familiar mixture of emotions flashes over Hamish's face: Relief for not loosing an old friend and guilt for feeling relief about the death of brother-in-arms.

_Quit stalling already Weasley. It will do you no good anyway_.

Taking a deep breath he asks the question, already dreading the answer:

"How many did we loss?"

"Holton, McMillan, Fitzroy and the skinny Chap from the Edinburgh garrison. The last two got a lungful of Gorgon Breath. I tell you, that's a really nasty way to go."

"What was the old son of a bitch thinking? He lost an eye to the stuff; he of all people should know how uncontrollable it is."

"Ahhh, well, that's quite a fucking story. Apparently with all the rush and hub-hub about the changed mission timetable and the one thousand things that absolutely had to be done in the last five minutes, some idiot in the armoury mixed up some of the grenades. We only noticed when we dispersed the bombs in front of the main gate. Moody nearly threw a fit. But speaking of idiots: Did _you_ nearly bring the god-damned building down on our heads?"

"Ehhhh, well there were extraordinary circumstances."

"I'm sure Moody will be delighted to hear your explanation."

Ron grunts non-committal. He will deal with Moody when the time comes.

Turning around, he gives the all-clear signal to his men, indicating the newcomers to be genuine.

The squads mingle immediately, seeking news about the fate of their friends in the task force, trading outrageous lies about deeds done and foes slain.

Five minutes of good-natured mockery later, they have parted ways again. Sarah, Seamus and Thompson will accompany Hamish and his squad. First to retrieve the body of their fallen comrade, then to assist him in sweeping the chambers for any dispersed Death Eaters. Ron and Murdock will press on with a bald, wiry Auror, named Eric, as their guide.

It doesn't take long to reach the halls, where the fighting took place.

Deep gauges and soot-covered craters are carved into the stone walls. A whole section of the hallway was apparently liberally painted by some mad artist with … something … red and … tripping…

"What the hell happened here? _Is that blood?_"

"You remember the _Reducto_ spell? You know, disintegrates objects."

"Yeah?"

"Ever asked yourself what would happen if a powerful wizard turned it on a human being? Well wonder no more."

"Merlin's balls!"

More than half a dozen man-shaped bundles, covered in black cloaks, are stacked against the far wall like firewood.

Frowning, Ron turns to their guide: "Say Eric, did any of the hoods get out of their dormitory?"

"No, Moody had it sealed up tight. These ones were only the guards on the Central Crystal Ball and the storage room."

The heavy oak doors to the control centre are smashed to splinters; the circular room bears the scars of heavy fighting.

Many of the dizzying, airy constructions of brass roods, silver levers, ebony wood, black iron and moon stone were damaged or shattered. Blood droops are drying on a crystal sphere, hovering on a column of silver flame above a confusing multitude of gemstone buttons and levers. Dominating the room is a giant, many-layered armillary sphere made of rushing, polished redwood circles interlinked with nodes of red gold. The whole contraption is hovering over a circular slab of blue-black obsidian, covered in dancing silver lights, like captured star-light. To top it all off a human skull on a black iron spike is mounted in the centre of the stone.

The skull turns on its iron spikes and gives him the widest, toothiest grin; he ever had the misfortune to see:

"Howdy old chaps. I'm Alf, the homunculus of the Central Control spell. How do you do?"

* * *

"You're late Weasley."

Moody is standing bent forward over one of the consoles, conversing quietly with a skinny fellow, which Ron recognizes as the second curse breaker of the task force.

"So sorry. Several of the locals wanted to barbecue me for trespassing, took awhile to sort that one out."

"And you just had to blow up half the building in the process?"

"Why does everyone automatically assume that it was me?"

"Because you were the only raving lunatic – "

"In that corner of the complex, you mean?"

His commander finally turns around to face him, giving him a cold look in the process.

"If I had just caused a broken legs and a smashed collarbone among my comrades; I might be less inclined to shoot off my mouth in front of my betters."

"You might, I'm not. Listen Moody; there is plenty of time for accusations and finger pointing later. I would like to know myself who had the brilliant idea to use Gorgon Breath, but we still have a job to do. Let's concentrate on that."

Mad-Eye is staring daggers at him but turns away without knocking him senseless; Ron decides to take that as agreement.

"How far along are we with the data transfer?"

Moody's curse breaker pipes up: "Thirty percent and counting. That kid of yours is a pure genius the access spells he pulled from that guard house crystal ball are enormously helpful. I even was able to reactivate 85 percent of the still functional guardian wards."

Ron raises an eyebrow.

"You are reactivating the perimeter defences?"

"Evidently."

"Any special reasons for that?"

"I like to cover all my bases." Moody is trying to look bored, but the effect is just scary, like a hungry bear with a toothache.

_Playing coy, are we? _Maybe he should go for a different road of attack then.

"Say old man, how many hoods were in here, when we came knocking?"

If Moody is surprised by the abrupt change of topic he doesn't show it. "Why don't you answer your own question?"

Rolling his eyes, Ron complies, ticking off his points on his fingers he begins: "Look-outs on the shaft tower and the roof, from what I heard on the way here, there were triple guards on all entry points: More than half a dozen in reserve in the guard dormitory, that my squad blew, and the same number next to the armoury: Eight on duty in the control centre or watching the storage room. How many were in the central dormitory?"

"Can't really say. It's still closed off to keep the Gorgon breath in, but from what I saw during the attack I would guess at least 30 more likely 40."

"Altogether nearly 80 hoods."

There is no need to speak it out loud; they both know there is something rotten in the state of Denmark. Their intelligence spoke of 20 maybe 30 guards, the stronghold was either ridiculously overstaffed for no reason – or forewarned. This of course begs the question: Who warned them?

A sense of foreboding, of trials yet to come settles heavily in his gut, turning his stomach into a lump of ice.

That is of course entirely ridiculous. The blood-letting is done; they will disappear like fog before the first pale rays of winter sunlight will touch the horizon. Even if there should be a traitor in their midst…

"No, goddamn it," Ron reasons. "It just doesn't make any sense. Triple guards or not – they were flirting or reading or asleep on their posts. Merlin's hairy balls, we killed three-quarters of them in their beds. If that was supposed to be a trap, it certainly was the most spectacular damp squib I have ever had the privilege to witness. Maybe there were just some troop movements, the Unspeakables missed, happens all the time. There must be a dozen possible explanations."

Moody growls his agreement: "Granted, but a healthy dose of paranoia never hurt anyone. Constant vigilance!"

"How much time will it take to download the rest and rig this place to blow?"

"Less than half an hour, but that's not the point."

"What are you talking about? The sooner we are gone the better I will like it."

"The storage room. It's heavily fortified; we haven't enough fire-oil left to blow it open. The entrance is guarded by a Sphinx, until we find the access spell there's no way in. Which reminds me: Where is your curse breaker?"

"I killed him."

Moody turns and raises an eyebrow: "I assume there was a reason, apart from 'I was bored and needed something to do'?"

"Yes."

Moody holds his gaze for a moment, then grunts and returns his attention to the controls in front of him.

"Fine. You will tell me later. Now take every available man and establish a perimeter. Maybe you should try to barricade the main door, just in case. Mullington here," Moody gestures towards his curse breaker, "We'll return control of the defensive wards to the guard houses. Keep your eyes open and kill everything that moves. We don't want any surprises."

Ron gives him a thin smile. No they don't. Most assuredly they don't want that, because surprises have the disagreeable tendency these days to be of the lethal persuasion. Just ask the hoods.

He turns and heads into the gloomy maze of corridors, his steps reverberating in the darkness, Murdock on his heels. Suddenly there is a decidedly sinister aspect to the shadows that had nurtured and protected him, like a mother their newborn, while stalking the mine.

For the Night is a bloodthirsty mistress, she makes no difference between hunter and prey.

* * *

A makeshift infirmary has been erected in an abandoned refectory. Exhausted men with dirty, sweat-streaked faces are clogging the corridors, drinking _Satur_-potion and wolfing down way-bread.

In one corner Guthwine, the cantankerous old healer, is bending over his patients; in the other … in the other five still bundles are laid out under black cloaks. Seamus is waiting there with the reason for this little detour. A debt has to be paid.

Taking a deep breath Ron shouts: "Gentleman, if I could have a moment of your precious time."

Only to be generally ignored. Murdock raises an eyebrow at him, which clearly says, 'Told you so.'

Annoyed he roars at the top of his lungs: "Shut up or die fuckers!"

When the men finally fall silent, he addresses them with a minimum of words and a maximum of sarcasm:

"Devastated as I may be by breaking up your little picnic. We have new orders from Mad-Eye. General assembly in the great hall in ten minutes. Move it."

Some unhappy soul flings a piece of bread at him, which he picks gratefully from the air, devouring it in two bites. It doesn't even take the edge off his hunger. But there is no rest for the weary.

"Murdock find the senior squad leaders, I want to meet with them in five minutes in the great hall. Oh, and send some dependable men up to the look-outs, I want additional wards on every entrance and start fortifying the fallback positions."

Murdock McKenzie gives him a reproachful look:

"Seamus could do that just as well. I should stay here."

Ron huffs out an annoyed breath:

"When did get so old and ugly mum? Oh wait, _now_ I remember: You are not my mother, so I can kick your ass, if you should try to behave like her. Now get a move on. You damn-well know, that Seamus is far more likely to sell them nosebleed nougats than to deliver my orders."

After Murdock has left, the room gradually empties until only he, Guthwine and his charges are left – and Seamus with his bundle of course. _No more procrastinating Weasley_.

He takes a deep breath and walks to where his dead are waiting for him.

* * *

"What a rotten way to go."

Seamus features are pale and drawn as he stares down at the hapless rookie's corpse. Some merciful soul has thrown a cloak over his destroyed face but the smell of frying flesh still hangs thickly in the air. It brings to mind barbecues in the garden behind the Burrow, balmy midsummer evenings under rustling oak leaves, cold pumpkin juice and thick, red steaks.

Ron thinks he might vomit.

"This is probably the most fucked up thing I have yet seen happen to a bloke."

He remembers a pair of eyes – bright and big and brown and dead.

He remembers a flash of green, the colour of dragon flame at its hottest point and a sudden ringing silence.

He remembers the absence of feeling, the coldness where once was light and he can't agree.

"There are worse things than death."

"Than this death? Care to enlighten me? Crucio might fit the bill and I always heard that Hermione's stew is a particular nasty way to commit suicide but other than that…"

Ron has already stopped listening. Seamus is his brother in arms, his friend. They have known each other for nearly fifteen years and shared wands, wine, women and war for the last five. But right now he really doesn't want to listen to his blathering. He wants to mourn for the girl, who drowned on her own blood in the guard house, and the young men he killed – friend and foe alike. He has to find out his comrade's name, tell his parents of the manner of his death (not all of it obviously, there is such a thing as mercy and he still has a dim recollection what that word means). He has to do many things; he wants to do even more. But most of all he wants to sit down and recall a naïve little boy, who also thought that dying is the worst, that could befall him – remember him, grieve for him.

But not now. There are injured to look after, dead to bury, contraband to destroy – and a debt to be paid.

Ron kneels beside the corpse and takes a deep breath to steel himself before lifting the cloak of the ravaged face. He hears Seamus gagging behind him but pays him no heed, committing every line of burnt bone, every crease of burst skin and blackened flesh to memory. The lower jaw is mostly gone, so it is not easy to make the galleon stay in the black, frayed hole, that once was a mouth, but he manages.

"For the ferryman, brother. May your journey be swift and your rest peaceful."

Ronald Weasley turns and flees the smell of death and blood for the clean, cold, night air. He has a perimeter to secure and so he will.

If he cries any tears that night, they are well hidden among the falling rain.

* * *

Hermione Granger is tired, hungry, horny and – increasingly irritated.

"They are not going to do it. Not in a thousand years Donovan. Not even if you should sing 'Land of Hope and Glory', standing on your head before the complete assembly of the New-blood militia. They won't dispense a single man from the protection of the camps much less a whole company. Not for you and certainly not for Scrimgeour. They don't trust the Ministry any more and who can blame them?"

"I can goddamn it. If they only would lend us their full support, we would have Scrimgeour out of his office and in Azkaban in a jiffy."

"And I repeat: Why should they trust you? They don't care, if you are the opposition leader. For them you are a rich half-blood from an old mercantile-clan. One of the moneybags, that own the ministry."

The old man settles back into his high backed oak chair and rubs his tired eyes.

"Fine then. What if I send you?"

"Me?" _Splendid Granger,_ her inner voice piped up acidly. _Now – how to squirm out of this one, huh ?_

"Absolutely not. We are overworked and understaffed as it is, if I leave now everything where will fall apart here." _Smooth girl._

"Hermione, you are Muggle-born—"

"Newblood, Donovan. Better remember that when you negotiate with them."

"A Newblood and a war hero. If they will listen to anyone it's you. You may have it in your hand to lay the foundations for an alliance that could end this war."

_How comforting to know there won't be any pressure on me._

He is regarding her with tired and kind — if somewhat watery — blue eyes, looking for all the world like a storybook grandfather. It's a very convincing act, if she didn't know him so well; she probably would fall for it.

"Will you at least think about it?"

He has got her by her sense of duty and her compassion and he knows it. Everything after that will just be rearguard action on her part, because she is too stubborn to just give in.

"Yes Donovan. I will think about it."

At least the man has the good sense not to smile.

"That is all I ask of you my dear. Now if you could just hand me the file on Angus Willowgreen, we could make some inroads …"

"Oh no, we don't."

That stops him cold. Hermione Granger refusing to work, that is reason enough to keep an eye out for the Four Horseman.

"Don't give me your puppy look, Donovan. I have worked for 16 hours straight on your bill and I pulled extra shifts for the whole week, I deserve some downtime."

Donovan Ironoak — her mentor and patron, opposition leader in the Wizengamot thorn in Scrimgeour's side, politician extraordinary and full-time pain in the ass — eyes her curiously but doesn't comment further on her completely atypical behaviour.

"So what are your plans for tonight?"

Already she doesn't like the direction this conversation is taking.

"A good meal, a glass of wine, maybe some reading in front of the fireplace and definitely a lot of sleep. Why?"

"Bollocks."

"Excuse me?"

"I have learnt deception from masters of the art, Hermione. I taught you everything you know about lying and that is pitifully little. You really want to stand here and maintain you intend to sleep alone tonight?"

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"My dear over the last year you have developed a curious habit of cutting short your work whenever the patrol rotation takes a certain squad to the Ministry."

"If this is about my performance…"

Donovan interrupts her with an irritated flick of his wrist. "Don't play dumb with me. Your performance is nothing short of spectacular, as it always was and probably always will be, but that's not the issue here."

Rising from his chair, he steps up to an old teakwood escritoire and rummages inside. He emerges a heartbeat later with a file in hand.

"Ahh, there it is. You had several trysts with the honourable Mr. Weasley. The last one about three weeks ago, in a little inn in York – 'The Smoking Pipe'. Also you purchased several rather … interesting items and clothes in a discreet little shop in Diagon Alley, called The Temple of Temptation."

He puts the file down with a grimace. "Really is it too much, to hope for a modicum of taste? People these days. String three words together to an alliteration and they think you are a reincarnation of the bard."

For the time being she is much too shocked about the intrusion on her privacy to be angry, but she is getting there and then…

"You have been spying on me?"

"Why yes, of course. I _am_ a politician after all."

He shows her a friendly, slightly surprised and completely apologetic face. Should a dictionary ever require an illustration for the entry 'duh!' she imagines, that a picture of his countenance would be the first choice.

If she wasn't so angry, she would laugh at his gall.

"Remind me again, why it is any of your business, if I take a man to my bed?"

"If my most trusted assistant is sleeping with a prominent member of the Hawk Wing, I make it my business. You know as well as I do; Scrimgeour and his band of war mongers and torturers would probably already be halfway to Azkaban without the support of the Weasel clan."

"That's hyperbole and you know it."

"Hardly. The Weasel Clan can raise 300 war-wands from its militia. Charles Weasley's contacts are the only reliable source of war dragons for the Ministry apart from the Germans and everyone knows how overprized _they _are. Without McNair's support Scrimgeour would loose his last bit of influence among the Purebloods. Neither the Heron Clan nor the Owl Clan nor the Crows would hang on long, if the Weasel Clan should decide to withdraw from its pact with the Ministry."

"Are you listening to yourself Donovan? It used to be about the good of our people. Now all you can think about is weakening the Hawk Wing. There is always a price to be paid. For some unfathomable reason you seem to assume, that all these clans would promptly renew their alliances with the Ministry should you be able to oust Scrimgeour from his post.

Anyway, the Weasel clan has council and a clan eldest. The Weasleys might take their name from their clan but you of all people should know they don't run it."

"Hieronymus McNair doesn't even fart without asking Arthur Weasley for advice. If you would only consider to use your contacts— "

"Enough! Not this again. Honestly, not everything is about clan politics. Get a life Donovan. Maybe then you will find something more productive to do with your time than playing Peeping Tom."

"Be reasonable Hermione. This affair with your ex-fiancée is bad for you on so many levels I can't even begin to count. Never mind the consequences for your career, Hermione; he is a supporter of Scrimgeour."

There is a proud tilt to her chin now; her eyes cold and haughty, every inch the ice princess.

"My moral integrity has never been compromised and I intend to keep it that way. Can you say the same?"

"Maybe not, but at least I have retained more common sense than God saw fit to bestow on a goose. Don't you remember what happened last time? Yes, you stayed true to your principals, I will give you that. But at what cost? I have already seen your heart broken once; I have no wish to witness it again."

That struck home. She turns her back on him but not before he sees her flinch.

Her voice is cold and distant now:

"Maybe I don't care. Maybe I just want to drown with him."

He shakes his head sadly.

"That's not like you."

"Maybe you don't know me at all." A hissing viper now, vicious, poisonous. Deadly.

She is opening the door; he refuses to lose this brilliant young mind, to waste all this potential.

Well there is still one arrow left in his quiver.

"He is sleeping with other women. Two or three that I have confirmed this year alone."

It shouldn't be possible for her posture to go any stiffer without breaking some bones, but somehow she manages. She doesn't turn around, but pauses with her hand on the door handle.

"So? I'm not his fiancée, his wife or his keeper. He can sleep with whatever tart, strikes his fancy."

Something in her reaction doesn't ring quite true. She has never been very emotional in his presence, but this cold composure, this complete mastery of her emotions is unexpected. Almost as if she…

"How long have you known?" Spoken calm and friendly, soothing like to a skittish colt. "Do you still love him?"

She must sense the pity, he is desperately trying to keep from his voice, because she whirls around with murder in her eyes. "Be fucked!"

The door slams shut behind her.

Hermione is rushing swiftly through the abandoned hallways. She will not cry. She is a grown woman, the most brilliant witch of her generation and she will not cry until she has reached the privacy of her office. _How long have you known?_ The question is repeated over and over again in her mind like a broken record. _Yes Hermione. How long have you known_, her inner voices pipes up maliciously. _Tell us_. No she won't, because the answer is to humiliating to contemplate.

How long had she known? Well, the truth is from the very beginning, in fact – and that's the kicker – he told her.

"Listen," the bastard said. "We already did the passionately-in-love thing and we have both the scars to prove it. Let's just keep it between friends this time, no promises, no attachments, no questions, no lies. You all right with that?"

And she was so pathetically happy to have him back in her life, after all the bitterness, accusations and betrayals following his brother's death, so overjoyed at the rekindling of their friendship, she fell over herself to agree.

It was a mere formality anyway, she told herself; a shield to protect his emotionally vulnerable points.

And if there are some unexplained absences, well the war makes its own demands. He can't tell her about everything; many of his missions are sealed with the red dragon. She understands that and doesn't pressure him.

Once she wasn't satisfied with his flat refusal to answer and kept digging until he turned and walked out the door. She didn't call out to him; of that much she is proud at least. But he didn't come back the next day nor the day after. Her pride didn't let her search for him, but there simply was no way to get warm, although the sun was smiling on bright blue summer sky, that didn't remind her of his eyes – not in the least. She slept fitfully, if at all, and ate very little. She wasn't mopping though, thank you very much, no matter what certain people, who should have minded their own bloody business in the first place, suggested. But she got a lot of work done. When he finally, finally returned to her after nearly two weeks, sputtered with blood and mud, she just buried herself in his embrace and breathed him in.

She hasn't asked any questions ever since.

Hermione Granger has never been a violent person, quite on the contrary actually, but now she feels the overwhelming urge to smash something, preferably something blond, brainless and busty. Tears burning in her eyes, she slams the office door shut behind her and looks for something to break.

She has lead her whole life according to the expectations of others, just once she wants to do something illogical and childish, something to lessen the hurt, frustration, insecurity churning in her heart. She picks up a Tang-Dynasty ceramic from her desk, raises it over her head and …puts it carefully back. She has always adhered to intellect, principles of reason, compassion and a strong sense of right and wrong. Destroying a priceless antique in a temper tantrum might bring some temporary relief, but it wouldn't be her and she won't, can't, change who she is. With a shuddering sigh, she heads for the little private bathroom adjacent to her office. A nice hot soak and good, long cry will have to do then.

Entering, she gives her mirror a withering stare. Most looking-glasses are possessed by a friendly, talkative, vaguely motherly character. Patrick the Pirate is probably the only mirror in the wizarding world that manages to leer. Whoever charmed the damned thing probably had a score to settle. Now it is magically fixed in the office of the undersecretary for magical law enforcement and no banishing charm will pry it loose. Therefore her bathroom is permanently blessed with a mirror that manages to make "concrete mixer" a dirty word.

She has cast a silencing spell on the blasted thing many times, but Patrick has an uncanny ability to worm his ways past her charms. Some benevolent entity has apparently decided she has suffered enough for one evening, because for once, he keeps his silence.

Opening the wardrobe, she reaches for a bathrobe and turns into stone with her arm half-raised.

A cherry wood chest innocently returns her gaze from the bottom armoire. It is protected by more complicated looking charms than Gringott's, but she has no need to open it anyway, having spent several hours last night to select and pack its contents, full of anticipation for this evening. A high-necked, white silk blouse just tight enough to hint everything, without revealing anything; a black satin skirt just a little bit too short to be modest. Beneath that, all attempts at subtlety went out of the window: Black silk stockings held by a black lace garter, matching push-up bra and a lace thong, that barely covers her mound.

Snatching the bathrobe, she gives the chest a vicious kick. Five minutes later, after the healing charm for her bruised toes has taken effect, she lowers herself in the boiling hot water of the tube and tries to relax.

No such luck. Try as she might to find some peace; her brilliant brain insists on torturing her with a thousand different versions of 'Ron and the big-breasted Blond.' She tried her best to avoid looking at her body, while she was stripping for the tube, but it's no good.

She knows the list of her faults. Breasts too small, hips too wide, skin pale as a corpse, hair as if she spent several hours each day plugged into a power socket. About the only things she likes about her body are her legs and bum – slender but well muscled, courtesy of seven years ballet and gymnastics. God how she had hated her weekly exercises and the instructor and especially the band of vapid, giggling girls – full of snide comments and little humiliations. Whoever said that children are innocent has never been at the receiving end of mobbing dished out by a band of blond, blue-eyed, cute, little monsters.

She can still hear the accumulated taunts of two decades. Starting in primary school but not ending there, not by a long shot.

"Rabbit face. Does the Easter Bunny kiss you? It must _love_ your teeth."

"Hair like a thunder cloud and a face like a traffic accident."

"Silly, ugly cow."

"A nightmare that one."

"Flat as a pancake."

"If God had given you half the haughtiness and twice the breasts, maybe you would be able to get laid and stop pestering us."

Enough! She has an extremely successful career. She is the raising star of the opposition in the Wizengamot. Already people predict she will become the youngest Minister of Magic in history one day. She doesn't need to be pretty to be respected. She has no need of cleavage and a plunging neckline to get attention. _Incidentally, that's lucky because you would be well and truly fucked, if you had to rely on such methods_, a snide little voice interjects.

She is the most brilliant witch of her generation; that has to count for something. Even with him.

"_Accio_ bottle!"

She is going to have a nice glass of wine and a long relaxing bath and when he ( if he comes ) … and when he comes to her, she will …they will…Truth be told, she doesn't know what will happen, but somehow they will make it work. They will. They must. She has already spent two miserable years without him, she has no intention of repeating that experience.

A wandless _Alohomora_ neatly uncorks the bottle she took great pains to acquire for this evening. Hermione briefly considers to _Accio_ a wineglass but memories of voices whispering insults like teachers-pet and old maid haunt her. Suddenly she feels no need at all for civilised behaviour. Without sparing another look for the label that reads 'Dr. Faustus Weingut – Spätlese 1789' she tips the bottle back and takes a hearty draught. Archimedes, her rubber duck, the faithful companion of her childhood, still bearing the marks of her milk teeth, is looking reproachfully at her.

"Don't you dare to look at me like that. You had it all. No bloody civil war, no inter- departmental intrigues, no power brokering, no worries if a boy likes you; just science and mathematical proofs and eternal glory." _And a roman soldier to bash his head in_, her always scrupulous mind remarks. "At least he got a good last line." Hermione retorts sharply. Goddamn it, can't her blasted brilliant memory leave her a moment's peace? She can't even wallow in self-pity without acting like a know-it-all. Admittedly 'Do not disturb my circles,' isn't quite Shakespeare but pretty good for an old man. Taking another swallow, she lays her head back and closes her eyes, intending to hide from the world.

It doesn't take long for her tears to find her.

When she wakes to a pounding headache, her eyes are red and swollen from crying; the water has gone cold and apparently someone is trying to break down her door.

"Hermione? Are you in there? Come on, open up."

Harry. Harry not Ron. Ron, who should have arrived hours ago to be screamed at, to explain, to grovel, to make it all better, but didn't. Apparently he decided it wasn't worth the trouble. She briefly considers getting rid of Harry but decides against it. She knows him too well; he is entirely capable of kicking down the door, if she doesn't answer. Maybe the word hasn't already gotten out about Ron and his whores. Maybe Harry doesn't know. Maybe he hasn't come to …what exactly? Explain? Console her? Beat up Ron? _Pity_ her?

Still clutching Archimedes in one hand, she steps out of the tub and slips her dressing gown over before opening the door. Maybe with a little luck and a lot of false confidence she will at least be able to keep his visit short. She really doesn't want to see anyone at the moment.

Harry nearly stumbles into her arms, red-faced, puffing and clearly agitated.

"Hermione, thank God that you are here."

"Look, Harry. I'm thankful that you thought of me, but this is a matter I have to work out on my own. I will talk with Ron as soon as he decides to grace me with his presence but until than I would rather prefer to be alone."

"Eh?"

Hermione rolls her eyes: "Really Harry, it's not that difficult to understand. We are going through a rough spot at the moment, but that's nothing we can't work around and – "

"Hermione I really haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about but I'm coming directly from Mission Control and…"

He takes a deep breath and she registers for the first time the formal grey robes of an Auror in full dress.

"Hermione," he says and something cold constricts around her heart, "his task force should have reported in two hours ago. We have lost contact. Something has gone wrong. Something has gone very wrong."

* * *

The night wind is rattling the iron riders of the shaft tower, where Ron is keeping his silent vigil. There is ice on its breath and he huddles deeper into the folds of his cloak. The rain has been driven inland, not a single cloud remains on the star-speckled night sky.

Extending his senses through the guardian wards, controlled by the crystal ball in his hands, he can feel the wind in the heather, the hare hiding in the brambles by the stream, every blade of grass shivering in the breeze, every piece of scree in the debris fields around the mine. This little blur of light is the life-energy of a mouse, hiding in the undergrowth; there is the brighter, sharper, bladelike feeling of a hunting bird. Here the diamond-hardness, the bright radiance of his sentries in their positions beneath his feet, scanning the moor land for anything lurking in the darkness.

Life and Death. Beginnings and Endings.

The Pleiades are setting on the western horizon, in the east he can just make out the turbid smudge of light, which is Manchester. Out here the stars are cold and merciless pinpricks of silver fire, almost alien in their grandeur.

Never was he more in tune with the song of the Wave, never more connected with the ebb and flow of magic inside him. He is immersing his soul in the frothing multitudes of maybes, riding the crest of the Wave when a dissonance interrupts his meditation. There on the very edge of his perception something is moving.

A thunder cloud approaching.

A crossroad is drawing nigh.

When Murdock reaches out to him through the mind crystal, he isn't surprised in the least.

"Moody says he wants you in the Central Control Centre and he wants you there now. We have a problem." 


	3. Best laid plans

_Interlude: Memories of Dust and Ash_

_Many years down a dark and winding road Hermione Granger will return to the early morning hours of this foggy November day and obsessively search for the little signs, the pebbles moving, that heralded the rock slide to come. In the silent hours before dawn, when sleep eludes her, she will sit at her window, starring in the darkness and talking to her ghosts. _

"_Yes," she will say. "This is where it started. This is where it all went wrong." She is not mistaken as such. But if so inclined you could take a broader view of the matter. One might argue that the beginning is more properly located in the blood-spattered halls of the Riddle House, or maybe even earlier when two boys meet on a late September morning and shared a sandwich on the Hogwarts Express. _

_Maybe it all began when a mother died on a dark Halloween night to protect her son._

_Maybe when a shy young woman left her heart in the uncaring hands of an arrogant nobleman. _

_Maybe when a brilliant young man, scion to the most noble and ancient house of Grindelwald, started to spend his nights in the sheer endless libraries beneath the Kyffhäuser, searching for knowledge better left undisturbed. _

_Maybe even earlier. Perhaps when the old noble houses, the Pureblood clans and the rich Half-blood families divided up Albion as a spoil of ware between them, following the complete destruction of the rebel armies in the Second Goblin Revolution._

_Maybe, when seven seals were pressed into wax on a parchment of curiously pale and hairless leather, made from an animal, that never walked on four legs, beneath words written in disturbingly red-brown ink._

_Maybe some of the blood soaked into this document spilled and dripped downwards through the centuries, colouring red the history of man._

_Yes… Yes, maybe this is where it all began. In the dark catacombs beneath Constantinople, during the Great Conclave, when the Pact Of Seven was forged with blood and Dark Sorcery._

_Who knows for certain? The Golden City was taken by the Turks many centuries ago, much knowledge lost to fire and war. All who could answer her questions have long ago turned to dust and ash. Only she still lingers on this side of the sunset. The dead keep silent, jealously guarding their secrets. _

A chamber filled with dust and shadows darker than midnight, moth eaten banners decorating the red sandstone walls speaking of lost glory and old tragedies. Apart from the slow, steady dripping of water neither sound nor movement disrupts the falling dust. A dark pond bordered in stone fills the centre of the chamber, no breath of wind, no drop of water touches its surface, yet it ripples in strange designs – fleeting, ever chancing. A ring of black obsidian stela surrounds it like vigilant watchmen.

Gargoyles and demons, hewn from the living rock of the chamber, are starring balefully down on the pond from their pillars – lidless eyes following any movement around the room. A crude eagle has been carved into the stone wall opposing the door, above older, darker designs of beasts slaying men.

Suddenly the air grows lighter, the shadows recede into their corners and the rippling over the water's surface ceases. By some trick of light or glamour one of the stelas turns into a wizened old man, unfurling his limbs like a great black spider.

Sighing quietly he steps up to an ivory-and-ebony chess table and studies the deployment of the pieces. He picks up a knight and holds it up before his eyes as if to inspect it. Impossible to say in the flickering candlelight if the piece is black or white.

In an odd imitation of an Indian victory dance he skips around the chess table. Maybe it's only the unsure lighting conditions, but his limbs seem to elongate and twist in ways never intended for a human body. A childishly high voice disrupts the heavy silence with an old nursery rhyme: "Wer hat angst vorm Schwarzen Mann? Keiner den ich kenn(1)." Stopping abruptly he scuttles over to a tarnished, old silver basin, standing on wrought iron legs in a corner. A snap of his fingers lights an emerald green fire in the bowl.

"I have to travel. Make all the necessary preparations Heinrich."

A disembodied voice answers him from the flames:

"Of course sir. I will cancel all your appointments for the week. Your intended destination sir?"

A pause. Then: "Every step is a destination and the destination only a step."

Heinrich doesn't volunteer a commentary to that. He knows his employer and his moods. When he is getting cryptic there is no choice but to sit it out.

"We are going to London."

Silence is oozing back into the chamber like black poison, trickling through ears, darkening heart and soul. This is no place for living, breathing creatures. This is the borderland to the Night Realms. Quietly, oh so quietly the old man breathes in the twilight. Rubbing his calloused hands over the finely crafted features of the knight he whispers into the emptiness. Who knows who is listening?

"Alle die ich kenn sind lange tot – heulen jetzt im Höllenschlot." (2)

* * *

During her school days in Hogwarts her dorm mates used to ridicule her for many things. A favourite target of Lavender and Parvati's taunts, after her plain looks and her supreme grades, was her supposedly iron will. After a particular nasty incident involving three frogs and a pillow turned dung-bomb Parvati had dubbed her The Steel Virgin. "You will reach your fiftieth year with spider webs between your legs and a spine so rigid one could use it as a battering ram."

They didn't know half of it. It is true, that she has never been very proficient in actual combat, partly because she abhors violence, partly because she isn't very good at keeping her cool under intense pressure. Yet it would be a fatal to mistake that for lack of resolve or even cowardice. She is a woman with a mission now and god help anyone, who gets into her way.

"Hermione. Wait!" 

Her nude feet are hammering a mad rhythm on the black marble floor, drowning out the annoying voice behind her. Her first stop will have to be Mission control. She is in desperate need of accurate intelligence. Already she is compiling a list of possible allies. She has always been a very opinionated young woman, as a result she has made a lot of enemies in the ministry but she has also collected a veritable stockpile of favours, ready to be called in. Obviously she will have to inform Donovan. He would never miss out on such a supreme chance to put Scrimgeour in an uncomfortable situation.

"Stop!"

Time is of essence. Every minute wasted might mean the death of another man, another brother, child,_lover_ that won't return. There are nearly 200 Aurors in the ministry garnison, these days. It will take maybe half an hour to sound general assembly and another half an hour to organise portkeys, but if all goes well, she can have her relief troops on the move in no more than maybe 90 minutes.

"Hermione! Goddamn it. Accio Hermione."

The hallway whirls around her as the summoning spell takes hold and deposits her none too gently at the feet of one Harry Potter, The Boy That Lived And Is Shortly Due To Be Dismembered By A Very Pissed Off Hermione Granger.

Apparently his survival instincts are still working because he takes a hasty step backward from her. Viciously jabbing her finger in his solar plexus she growls:

"You have five seconds to explain yourself Potter, before I turn you into a toad and keep you in the loo."

Instead of answering her he turns her around so that she is facing her reflexion in a highly polished marble wall:

She stormed out of the door clad only in a grey silk bathrobe – which doesn't quite reach mid-thigh. Which has also soaked up most of the residual water, causing it to cling to every curve of her body. Her nipples have gone hard and pointy in the cold hallway and are clearly visible under the grey silk. To top it all off a bright yellow rubber duck is peeking out of her left pocket.

For all intends and purposes she might as well be naked.

Maybe it's just her imagination, but Archimedes seems to be grinning evilly at her as if to say: "Don't worry. Happens to the best of us. At least _you_ didn't scream heureka."

Wisely Harry doesn't comment further on her appearance but turns away intently studying the black marble walls. The Grangers have always been very private and reserved people, she wouldn't go to a nudist beach any more than stop brushing her teeth or burn a book. Nonetheless for half a heartbeat Hermione is tempted to just take off again and to hell with her modesty. The thought of all those calculating, cold eyes on her flesh make her skin crawl but what ultimately stops her is the knowledge that she is in for a nasty power struggle, one of the dirty, slit-your-throat, no-holds-barred persuasion. Scrimgeour is an old veteran of inter-department intrigue, there is no way in hell he will let her just march in and take over without a fight. It will be hard enough without putting herself in the defensive from the start by prancing around in front of this perverted gits more or less naked. She simply can't afford the luxury of loosing this fight. Ron can't afford it.

"Accio armoire!"

* * *

Only his seeker reflexes keep Harry from being squashed by the armoire heading towards them. With an outraged squawk he leaps to side seconds before the massive oak wardrobe gently lands between them. Before he can formulate an protest a grey silk robe flutters over the barrier and settles over his head smelling of the fresh lemons-and-herbs smell of clean girl, the sharp tang of her sweat and the bares hint of musk. Hastily he ribs the offending article of his head and drops it on the floor. _Get a grip Potter. It's just a fucking robe. You are not a virgin, try not to faint._

"…are you listening to me Harry?" a sharp voice suddenly intrudes on his thoughts.

"Uhh. Yes?"

"Can you repeat a single word I just said?"

"Actually—"

"Never mind!" her voice is sharp and cold enough, you could chop it in frozen pieces and sell it as razors. "Concentrate Harry! I really shouldn't have to tell you of all people how important this is. Got to Kingsley, we need to know what's happening out there. Tell him to assemble a patrol and go scouting."

"He won't even let me out of the Ministry, let alone on a dangerous mission. You know why."

"Then send Tonks. Contact as many Order and DA members as you can find, maybe firecall Dean at Hogwarts. I hear he is pretty high up in the Newblood Militia nowadays. His influence and your name will at least get you a hearing in the refugee strongholds. We will need any fighting man we can get before the night is out."

The wardrobe topples to the side, spilling silks and satins like a gutted man entrails, revealing a coolly composed Hermione Granger, armoured in her best formal dress robes. Harry has to suppress the urge to take another step backward under the force of her gaze. He knows that look: Ron has dubbed it My-name-is-Granger-and-I-take-no-prisoners. It is almost enough to make him pity Scrimgeour and his cronies. Almost.

"One more thing Harry. Maybe I will need a floo-connection to Greenstone Hall. Make the preparations will you?"

Something in all these orders strikes Harry as odd. He knows enough about the Wizamgot and the fearless leaders of the Wizarding World. He doesn't doubt that Donovan Ironoaks would love to put the Minister in an uncomfortable situation, but about the only point those two will ever agree on is the worth of their own skins. They won't put themselves at risk – however small – just to rescue half a hundred lives.

"Hermione are you…" taking a deep breath he starts again "You don't believe Scrimgeour will agree do you?"

For a moment there is nothing but stark fear, in her eyes before she viciously clamps down on her feelings. "He will if he knows what's good for him." With a smile sharper than any rapier she turns and hurries down the corridor towards the deeper levels. "But it never hurts to have a contingency plan."

"Right."

Harry whirls around and sprints for the barracks. An abandoned rubber duck emits a pitiful squeaking sound as it is crushed under his heavy boots.

At least he can do something now apart from pacing in circles. Anything is better than sitting around, wondering if tonight another empty chair will greet him at the dinner table. Another dead friend, another face haunting his dreams. So he runs – maybe if he is fast enough he will be able to escape his nightmares.

* * *

"How many?" 

"Can't really say – at least not with any degree of certainty. But we estimate closer to 200 than to 150."

Grim silence fills the Control Centre. The Mad-Eye, Guthwine and the senior squad leaders of the task force are gathered around the armillary sphere, the centre of which contains a hologram of the mine and the surrounding terrain.

Moody doesn't look happy but than again the man probably left his mother's womb with an expression sour enough to put any lemon to shame. Mad-Eye starts digging in his pockets and finally produces a grimy roll of chewing tobacco. Deliberately munching he asks:

"How many of our men are fit to fight?"

Guthwine, also known as the Hatchet, has never been a man to make his disapproval felt with any degree of subtlety:

"Forty-nine still alive, though that might have changed while I was forced to attend this fucking tea party. Six of those won't do any fighting in the near future – or even walk on their own for that matter. We might still loose young Fergus and Samuel – in fact the longer I stand here with my thumb up my ass the higher the probability. Now if you will excuse me gentlemen, some of us have to clean up the mess after our fearless warriors have finished blowing holes in murderous kittens and bloodthirsty fawns."

The stocky, ancient healer roughly shoulders Hamish to the side and disappears into the hallway, without so much as a by your leave.

Rubbing his bruised shoulder Hamish makes a rude gesture – but only after the cantankerous, old man is long gone from sight.

"Terrible, old battleaxe. What were they thinking when they made _him_ a healer?"

Ron gives him an impish smile;

"Easy. They thought we would be really motivated to stay either a) healthy or b) get ourselves killed quite thoroughly, so as not to end up in his clutches. Less fuss all around."

"If it's not too much trouble maybe we could all concentrate on the nearly 200 Death Eaters on our doorstep? Thank you ever so much."

The leader of their battle group has turned to the hologram and is intently studying the deployment of the enemy forces.

"They are sitting squarely on all possible ways out of here. This is no contretemps gentlemen, they expected us to be here and took their positions accordingly. Any attempt to force our way out of her is just a roundabout way of suicide. We would have to attack over open ground, blast our way through against an enemy detachment at least equal to us number, who have the high ground and cover _and _we would have to do all that before the rest of them takes us in the rear. Then maybe we would have a chance to make a run for it."

Hamish grunts absent-mindedly: "Alright then: no escape attempts. That still leaves us with the question what to do, doesn't it?"

Wallace, a scar-covered veteran, keeping watch at the doors with Seamus, burps loudly: "What can we do? We are outnumbered, cut off from relief and communication. To paraphrase that gentlemen: We are well and truly fucked."

Ron can feel the uneasy edge to his nonchalance. The sharp smell of fear thinly veiled with bravado. Fear is filling the hall like foul vapours.

A skinny, red-headed Scotsman pipes up: "Well then let's bat down the hatch. We are sitting in a god dammed fortress, why not use it? Let them come and get us if they want to. We lost communications with the ministry nearly two hours ago, sooner or later they are bound to check up on us. Time is on our site."

A consenting murmur goes through the crowd, only Mad-Eye keeps his own council, quietly chewing tobacco. "That's everyone's considered opinion? To fortify our positions here as well as humanly possible and wait for rescue?"

His gaze goes around the room, searching out every squad leader and discarding them when they don't meet some criteria known only to Moody. Finally his gaze comes to rest upon Ron.

"Weasley, I didn't see you cheer with the rest of our little Alexanders. Your opinion?"

Ron gives his battle leader a dirty look: "You really want to hear it?" … _or do you merrily enjoy watching me, making more enemies for myself you misbegotten son of a whore?_

"No idiot. I just asked because I so enjoy the sound of your voice – it's like music and birdsong. Talk already you cretin!"

Ron takes a minute to collect his thoughts. Concentration has never been his strong suit, always too unrestrained, too impulsive. The stakes are too high for a temper tantrum this time. Forty-nine lives.

"If we wait for rescue chances are we will all end up as very stupid looking corpses. There are about 200 Aurors stationed at the ministry. They would have to strip down the garrison to the bones, if they want a reasonable chance of success. Scrimgeour is a much too calculating bastard to expose the Ministry to an attack in this way." Not even to speak of the dangers for his own skin. But accusing the Minister of Magic of cowardice will do nothing for his argument here and has the potential for much unpleasantness later on. The Unspeakables have their eyes and ears everywhere these days. "The rest of the corps is tied down in other garrisons. We are simply stretched too thin. It would take days to assemble a force strong enough to effectively relief us. There is no help coming gentlemen. We are very much on our own."

"So what would you have us do? Attack? We would be lucky if half a dozen of us made it through their lines alive. We cannot run – "

"And we cannot hide! They outnumber us nearly five to one. We might have a chance to repel them if the perimeter wards were still fully functional. As it stands we will bleed them and we will bleed them hard but that will be scant comfort when they spill our guts on our shoes, won't it?"

They know he is right but they don't want to hear it. They have all heard the rumours. They all know how few men return from imprisonment by the Hoods. Those that come back are never really whole again, empty shells and broken mirrors. Lost to the nightmare lands.

The Scotsman has turned to face Ron. Voice trembling he lashes out:

"Then what? Do you want to skip out of the gates and hand over the keys with a smile on your face? 'No hard feelings and sorry about the blood on the carpet.' I'm sure that will go over real well. Maybe you could try to sweeten the pot with a free blowjob."

"You would know, you poncy little cock-sucker." Seamus snarls from the door.

The whole chamber stinks of exhaustion and fear. Here they are, a band of tired man caught like rats in a burning house, perfectly aware of their impending doom, yet unable to escape it. Tempers are fraying, the war council is moments away from turning into a fistfight

"Enough!" Moody bellows "Are you men or monkeys, flinging your shit at each other? Show some dignity. Go on Weasley."

"A question first: Do we have control of the anti-apparition wards?"

The Scotsman begins to giggle mirthlessly:

"That's it? That is your Master plan? Lower the wards and hightail out of here? Merlin help us all, we are listening to a brain-amputated house elf. Let me it explain it to you dimwit: the first thing they will have done is set up their own wards to trap us. Remember? Training in tactics: first lesson, first hour, FIRST FUCKING MINUTE?!"

"I do. Contrary to some I actually attended the whole thing." Ron turns his back on his brother-in-arms effectively cutting him out of the conversation. He can practically feel his blood boiling. _It's just a badly trained kid, afraid of the dark Weasley. Don't let him get to you. You are an adult, prove it for once_. Speaking in low tones he continues his conversation with Moody: "We need control of the wards and one or two men to poke around in the old storage hall on the west side."

"The one you blew up? What's that supposed to accomplish?"

"You want as to hide in the darkness like cowards, is that it?" interjects the Scotsman.

"Silence!" Moody may be past his prime but the Old Man still commands the absolute respect of the corps. There aren't many who can face the stare of the Mad-Eye._Skinny boy obviously not being one of them. _Intently studying the floor tiles the young Auror retreats into the ranks of his brethren. Satiesfied Moody raises an eyebrow at Ron.

"Well? The Questions still stands."

"When our bombs went off they excavated a tunnel entry. With a little luck there is a link to mine."

The old soldier doesn't seem to be impressed: "All exits to the mine are located within a radius of 500 meters to this building, not to mention blocked up. Even if we could open one we would still be trapped inside their lines."

"You are not following me. Moody, the tunnels are nearly half a mile deep around here."

Pensively Moody rubs his chin, finally giving him a curt nod. "That might just work. There are risks of course. If we can't find a place deep enough, we will be trapped down there."

"We won't be any worse of than now. Even if it doesn't work out we can still fight for it. In the dark all armies have the same size. Plenty of choke points and ambush positions down there."

Moody nods slowly: "All right then Weasley. This is your ball, run with it."

Hamish clears his throat strepitously: "If it's not too much trouble could you two lovebirds let the rest of us in on what you are hatching?"

Moody waves Hamish's remark away like an annoying fly: "Take your tame Irishman and have a look around at the tunnel. Come straight back here afterwards, you hear me? No detours!"

Throwing an only slightly exaggerated salute to his commander Ron whirls around and slips out of the door, Seamus hot on his heals.

They are running as fast as their feet and the gloomy, debris strewn corridors will permit. His face has turned to a most alarming shade of red when Seamus finally catches up to Ron: "Goddamn those weakly ales… in the Three Broomsticks. Will you… slow down already, you… despicable son of a hare?"

"You have grown old and fat mate. I would add ugly but that's kind of redundant, don't you think?" answers Ron.

"Har-de-har. You are a regular… barrel of laughs, you are. Anyway… what are you and Moody cooking up? …I really hate to echo that… little cock-sucker back there, but how… are the tunnels going to help us? If we …have to stand and fight at least up here… we could use the perimeter wards… Those still working at least."

Seamus is making noises like a badly damaged steam engine and Ron himself feels light-headed with exhaustion. The satur-potion is wearing off. This night has taken its toll on them all.

"I don't intend to fight at all. With a little luck we will slip out from right under their noses."

"And how… is that… supposed to work?"

Puffing hard Seamus stumbles to a stop and wipes sweat of his brow. Ron leans against the wall beside him, trying to catch his breath.

"The tunnels are half a mile deep around here."

"Yeah you said that before and I heard you. So what?"

"So, most anti-apparition wards project discus shaped fields, which is entirely logical if you think about. The bigger the field the more complicated the Arithmancy and the necessary spells. There is simply no benefit in protecting a lot of empty air and solid rock, where no one in his right mind will try to apparate in the first place."

"Won't they see that coming?"

"Unlikely. As far as they know, we don't even have access to the mine. Anyway there is not a whole lot they can do about it. Apart from an all-out attack that is. The permanent anti-apparition wards make it impossible for them to reach the tunnels."

"So you are saying apart from killing us all they can't do much? Splendid."

"But they don't know that. They can't be sure about the status of the defensive wards so they will probably wait for heavy weapons, maybe dragons or golems, before making their move."

Pushing off from the wall Ron starts down the hallway with long strides, a wheezing Seamus falling in step beside him.

"What about their wards? Can't they adjust the spells to include the deeper levels?"

"Tinkering with a ward? Are you crazy? At the very best the result will be a highly complex, expensive and very much ruined piece of charm-work, at the worst it will blow up into their faces. Did you never listen in advanced in charms?"

"No. I was much too busy checking out Lavender's rack. As were you if I remember correctly."

"I" states Ron with great dignity "was a model student. Ever diligent, respectful to my elders, hard working –"

"Ohhhh yes. _Hard_ being the operative word here, but hard you were. And who could blame you? Five years of lusting after our favourite bookworm – that is a hell of a dry spell. Tell me is it true she wore a chastity belt complete with razor wire and padlock over her panties?"

Giving his friend a dark look Ron responds: "You are a fucking pervert. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Many," agrees Seamus amiably, "as well as a lazy, disrespectful, up-to-no-good, chaotic bump. Always was and always will be. Which is exactly the reason why you and I go so well together. Two of a kind and all that. Now you don't want to stand here and maintain you actually listened to Flitwick the old bore?"

"Why not?"

"Cause if you do you would be a fucking liar. And I'm not bound by my word to fucking liars. Remember that night in the Three Broomsticks—"

"Alright, alright. No need for blackmail." Sighing Ron admits defeat: "Hermione taught me. You happy now?"

"Not really. That girl is turning you in a regular teacher's pet. You chucked her nearly two years ago and she still has you whipped. As a man I gotta say that's just embarrassing."

"Now, now. Don't be so negative my dear Irish friend. Learning can be fun."

Seamus raises an incredulous eyebrow at him: "Are you drunk?"

"Not at all. A man just needs the right motivation."

The Irishman stops short in his tracks a disbelieving grin on his face: "Weasley you sly dog. You are shagging the girl. No, no don't bother denying it; I know that shit-eating grin. You sir, are getting laid."

Ron stops in the middle of the hallway and forces Seamus around to face him. "Seamus! Seamus a word. I'm neither denying nor confirming anything—"

"Sure you don't. I—"

"BUT!"

"…just want to—"

"Will you stop babbling and listen for all of five minutes please? Thank you. - But you have to keep your mouth shut. I'm not joking, this is serious. The merest hint of a scandal would destroy her career – at the very least."

"Relax. I won't breath a word. My hand to god. I don't understand what the whole hubbub is about anyway. You are both adults for god's sake."

"It's … complicated."

Seamus sighs philosophically: "Ain't it always?"

* * *

Hermione Granger is a very logical and controlled woman. Since her early childhood years she has prided herself of an above par intellect. Indeed during the friendless days of primary school her self-esteem was almost entirely depended on her academic achievements. 

Consequently she has studied politics from all possible angles: Moral, Philosophy, Sociology, Economics and many more. She has read everything from Hobbes' Leviathan to Kant's Categorical Imperative, from Confucius to Sun-Tsu.

She knows the theory, she has heard the old saying: In a system that promotes only success by any means necessary one will find the vilest criminals not in jail but among the leaders of society. But she never really _understood_ – until now.

It wasn't so much that Scrimgeour and Ironoaks both had refused to even consider a relief mission but the manner of their rejection. Completely matter of fact, completely unapologetic. Not that any of them took pleasure in their decision; they aren't cackling comic villains – just pragmatic. If they had send the garrison, they would have put their own lives at risk and that simply wouldn't do.

She leans her brow against the cool brass-and-mahogany wall of the elevator and tries to match the pattern of her breathing to the rhythmical clanking of the chains in the darkness above her. Slowly the panic attack, threatening to overwhelm her composure crests and subsides, the terrifying steel belt constricting her chest loosens and she can breathe again. _Easy girl, easy. Ron and Harry are counting on you. Whatever you are going to do – fainting is absolutely __**not**__ an option. You do have a brain – use it! _

Right then – she still has options. Greenstone Hall, the ancient stronghold of the Weasel Clan, is her best chance at the moment. If Shacklebolt is on gate duty tonight that is, if he is still loyal enough to the Order to ignore a command by the Minister, if the clan eldest will listen to her, if, if, if…Madness lurks on that path. One step at a time.

The elevator lurches to a stop at the entrance level and she wills her hands to stop shaking before she exits the cabin. The once grand atrium of the ministry has much changed since the first time she has seen it. Gone are the bubbling fountains and the looming statues, gone are the cavernous halls and the long lines of black marble fireplaces.

Dancing flames in silver sconces along the granite walls fill the dank room with a flickering light. Two monstrous stone-gargoyles, each bigger than a van, keep unblinking watch over the coming and going. A pair of heavy iron doors bars the way deeper in the dark maze of barracks, armouries and storerooms filling the topmost level. The usual complement of Aurors is doozing on their posts next to the door.

Apparently her arrival is expected. She hasn't even taken five steps into the chamber when the shadows pooling beneath one of the heavy granite columns framing the gate give birth to a grizzled old man, who opens a door in the right wing of the gate, motioning her to follow him.

"Shacklebolt is waiting for you."

Wordlessly she bypasses the snoring sentries and follows her guide in a warren of badly lit tunnels and chambers hewn from the bedrock beneath London. Finally the old man stops before a heavily armoured gate and produces a black iron key from the unfathomable depths of his greasy robe. Hermione can't see the spells as such or perceive them directly in any other way for that matter. Only a prickly feeling in the back of her head as if a thousand angry ants were step dancing on the back of her head, connected for some reason to the impression of a vicious red-orange glow that flares-up and then darkens as the gate-wings swing open. Ignoring the sneering little demon faces, carved from the nearly black oak of the door, she steps through the door in the brightly light chamber on the other side.

The great granite dungeon has only one entrance and is bisected by a heavy black iron fence, reaching as far as the vault. On the far side of the barrier half a dozen floo-fireplaces are strung up like beads against the wall. _Here_ none of the sentries are sleeping: A half-score of hard-faced men in full battle armour are keeping watch behind battlements on both sides of the door.

Something that looks alarmingly like a crossbreed between an m.g. and a snarling miniature dragon snout is protruding from the parapet. Aggressively returning her gaze with his black, beady eyes the dragon opens its jaws wide, revealing an ominous opening looking altogether too much like a gun muzzle for comfort.

"Whatcha you looking at doll?"

Hermione's life has never been normal by any stretch of imagination but arguing with a passive-aggressive lizard turned gun, that's a new low even for her. "Your teeth – regrettably. Do you brush and rinse daily?" Her inner voices seem to find that hysterically funny. _What was the old saying? You can take the girl from the dentists but never the dentist out of the girl – or some such. _

Kingsley Shacklebolt, god among men, rescues her from the need to continue this conversation.

"Hermione," he says and his shrewd, black eyes measure and categorize her like an insect under a microscope. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Kingsley." She isn't in the mood for mind games. There is simply no time to beat about the bush. "I need a floo connection to Greenstone hall. Make it happen. Now."

Shacklebolt smiles and nods amiably: "And why should I do such a foolish thing?"

_Here it comes then._

Hermione smiles sweetly: "Because I'm a comrade in arms, a fellow member of the Order not to mention a respected member of the Wizamgot. Because I will make your life a living hell, if you don't."

"You will? Funny, we just got a fire-call from Mission Control. The big man himself. He ordered a lookdown; curiously enough he expressively included a certain bossy under-secretary."

_Breath girl! Concentrate! Don't loose your focus now. _Her hands are clamped to tight fists, relaxing them takes a conscious effort. "Do you even know what this is about?"

The veteran shrugs: "Tonks filled me in."

"So you are aware, that our fearless leader plan to abandon a whole taskf—"

"That's a tactically sound decision."

"_Excuse me?!"_

"You heard me. You have a personal stake in this Hermione, you are not thinking clearly. I know the situation can't be easy for you to deal with but we can't expose the Ministry to an attack. Not even for the 50 men out there. Not even for the people we love. This is war. All manner of people delight in sprouting pretty slogans like 'No Man left behind' or 'For freedom, democracy and free butter beer for everyone' but when you come right down to it, it's about meeting your objective by any means necessary. Which means blood and guts and little boys crying for their mums with their intestines in their laps. It's not pretty. I don't like it and that's a fact, but I understand necessities."

"Don't you dare to give me this…this… excrement of an excuse." Whatever the war-hardened veteran sees on her face it's enough to make him step back and instinctively reach for his wand. "Every cowardice, every atrocity since…times immemorial has been justified with we-had-to-it , with circumstances-demanded-it." Her contemptuous voice drops to sugary whisper: "Why? Why do you have to Kingsley? Did aliens make you do it? Did your dog?"

The dark-skinned Auror raises an eyebrow: "Are you done?"

"No. I'm not. Not yet. Listen to me: All I need is a floo connection to Greenstone Hall. If you and the rest of your fine gentlemen won't give me the fighting men I need to rescue our people I will try my luck with the Weasel Clan. There won't be any exposure of strategically important sides, no strain whatsoever on the Ministries resources. There is absolutely no reason to deny me this, apart from the Minister's fear that I will make him look bad."

She has to take only one look at his face to know her hit has gone home.

"Come on Kingsley. I know you, we were – we have been allies for many years. You can't stand here and pretend abandoning half a hundred men doesn't bother you. This is your golden opportunity to help them. Dumbledore would have agreed."

Shacklebolt rolls his eyes: "Here you go playing the Dumbledore card. I want to make—"

"Okay then: Not a word of Dumbledore. But let's face facts here, you don't have a choice anyway."

"Oh? How do you figure

"You are already in up to your neck. You let Harry go, didn't you? Not your fault really. Just a cozy little early morning watch. No trouble. Along comes your old brother-in-arms and asks for a tiny little favour, just a floo connection to Hogswarts to visit some friends. Maybe you were surprised, maybe even suspicious because four a.m. isn't exactly the usual time for a social call. But you had no real reason to deny him. When Scrimgeour fire-call came in he was long gone. So now you have a choice Kingsley: You can stun me and throw me in a cell and maybe our betters will be pleased with you because you caught the inconvenient little upstart, disobeying an order in a time of war. Maybe not though. Maybe they will have your head anyway because Harry will go ahead with the rescue attempt no matter what and they won't be able to plausibly deny any knowledge about this unholy mess. Or you could look the other way; pretend I slipped out before you got your orders. Help me rescue 57 men and women and you will at least retain some allies in the Ministry. Anyway just so that we are clear, if any of my boys gets hurt because you hindered me I will see you dead."

For a moment everything hangs in the balance and time stretches like the horrible pink bubblegum, she loved as a child. Here they stand, eyes locked like two gunslingers in the main street of some dusty border town. _High Noon. _Hermione has to suppress the absurd urge to look around for a tumbleweed, rolling through the chamber.

Finally the tall man steps to the side, sketching a bow with animal grace. His smile is half vinegar, half ill-concealed sarcasm when he offers her the keys to the iron fence. "Always a pleasure to converse with you."

She snaps the key from his hand, half afraid that he will reconsider, and rushes to open the gate. It takes half a dozen heartbeats for the spells on the fence and on the fireplaces to dissolve and each and everyone feels like an eternity.

Finally, finally the gates open she hastens through mind already intend on the next obstacle to negotiate when Kingsley's voice stops her.

"Hermione?"

"_What?"_

"I have sent Tonks on a reconnaissance patrol with Ginny Weasley and a squad of reliable men. I will order her to rendezvous with any relief troops you might be able to organize."

"Ginny? She is a healer. She doesn't even have any formal combat training."

"So? Neither have you."

"You allowed her to go?"

"Allowed? Uhhhuhhh. Let's just say you are not the first member of the fairer sex to threaten me with bodily harm today. And it's not even 5 a.m."

With an impatient flick of her wrist she waves his comment away and grabs some floo powder from the pot next to the fireplace. Stepping into the fireplace she concentrates on the key-spell, which will allow her access to the fireplace in Greenstone Hall. Just before emerald flames blaze up around her and the world disappears in whirling maelstrom of colour and noise Kingsley's parting words reach her ears.

"When the lamps go dark it's every man for himself, Granger. These are desperate times. Watch your back. And good luck."

* * *

"Hat-SCHUUUUU." 

"Oh for fucks sake Seamus. If you have to sneeze couldn't you just once try to spray anything _but_ my neck? It's a big world. So many tempting targets out there. Targets," Ron remarks mildly "not me."

"Can't help it. All this dust and my sinuses just don't agree. Anyway it's for a good cause. You are in dire need of a shower Weasley. You stink." As if to signal agreement Seamus's Nose starts twitching again:

"Hat-SCHUUUUU."

"Lovely. Let's get out of here before your head bursts."

Cursing and moaning the two young men are scrambling upwards over the scree, filling half of the pit. Wheezing Ron collapses on the edge of the crater. "God damn it. Whose bright idea was that _Animabilis_ spell again?"

Alas the Seamus's sarcastic rejoinder is stillborn for lack of breath. Groaning the Irishman heaves himself over the edge and rolls onto his back beside Ron. Together they stare up through the hole in the roof, at the giant wheel of silver dust turning above them in the sable blackness of the night sky.

Half a lifetime later, after some strength has returned to his limbs Ron sits up and kicks a stone into the crater, watching as little dust clouds mushroom in its wake. Next to him Seamus slowly comes to his feet, the painfully bright light of his wand-tip throwing stark shadows over the tunnel entrance, that is half way buried by debris.

"The whole thing is highly unstable. You are even more of an risk than usual down there. I was half afraid the ceiling would fall in on us every single time you sneezed."

"Shouldn't we have gone in further? What if it's blocked up five meters behind the next bend? Huh? What then?"

Shrugging Ron answers: "Then we will all look very stupid when the Albion's Legion of Freedom Fighters kicks down our doors. Pretty unlikely though. The explosion was at this end of the tunnel, so should be any cave-in. Anyway time is a very limited commodity at the moment. You never know when our friends might decide to come knocking."

"But you said they wouldn't attack—"

"Until!" Ron cuts in, "Until they got heavy weaponry. Or reinforcements. Or simply become bored of sitting in the cold. What the fuck do I know? Remember we are essentially bluffing here. Do you really want to push our luck?"

Ron stands up unsteadily and picks up his wand.

"Let's go. If Moody and his boys got the Storage room open we can be gone in less than half an hour. I won't be happy until I turn my back on these god forsaken tunnels."

"Ain't that the truth! Décor, ambience and company – all very lacking in this place. Bloody hell, what I wouldn't give right now for one of me Mam's steak-and-kidney pies and a good, strong ale."

Their retreat through the warren of dusty corridors and empty rooms is decidedly less hasty than their arrival. Limbs turning into lead, his head too heavy to lift his gaze from his toecaps – they are both in dire need of a Satur potion.

The warm glow of the torches lightening the Control Centre is just visible at the other end of the corridor, when a shrill scream, re-echoing from the dank granite walls of a side tunnel, sends them reaching for their wands.

"What the fuck was that?"

Their exhaustion momentarily forgotten the two aurors scramble to take cover at both sides of the tunnel entrance. Straining their ears to hear something over their thunderous heartbeat the two men are crouching in the darkness with baited breath.

If the Deatheaters have somehow made it into the building they are all dead. No alarm has gone up yet but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, as any number of dead men could attest to.

Ron is straining his eyes, trying to penetrate the shadows seeping from the cracks of the damp granite walls. A faint light, barley brighter than fairy dust in a new moon night, is flickering at down the hallway.

The only tactically sound option in a situation such as theirs is for one man to stand guard over the tunnel entrance in question, while the other raises the alarm. Ron is just opening his mouth to inform Seamus of his plan, when a rumbling groan reverberates in their bones.

Apparently the Irishman has had enough of waiting: Signalling to Ron with a curd gesture that he intends to take point Seamus advances into the tunnel.

Ron hisses through his teeth: "Stop! Seamus, wait!" Either his friend doesn't hear him or he is wilfully ignoring him, either way Ron doesn't dare to shout. If there are any enemies lurking in the shadows anything giving away their position might as well be an executioner's axe. "Fuck!"

The coldly calculating part of his brain is distinctly aware that the tactical situation hasn't change one iota.

_Fine, so Seamus volunteered for guard duty. Moody and the rest still need to be informed. It's the logical thing to do therefore I would recommend to put your carcass into motion Mr. Weasley. _Ron grits his teeth. There is no fucking way he will abandon a mate in a fight no matter what this bad imitation of Snape, that apparently has pitched tent inside his head, has to say. _You always lacked the faculties to grasp the true meaning of leadership Mr. Weasley. _

"Shut up…" Ron abruptly clamps his jaws together and completes his sentence silently: … you slimy git.

_Great. Now he is talking to voices in his head. Whatever will be next? Step right up people! See the Amazing Ronald Weasley. Drooling. Dancing with his drawers on his head. All the good stuff._

Swearing under his breath Ron hurries to catch up with his friend. The adrenalin circulating in his veins has given him a fresh bout of energy but he is running on fumes and he knows it. In his haste to keep up with Seamus he very nearly bumps into the Irishman's backside.

As his eyes have more or less adjusted to the stygian blackness so he is just able to make out the dim glimmer of light, worming its way through the cracks between door and stonework. Voices are barley audible through the thick oak planks.

In the darkness Seamus' face is visible only as a black outline but Ron has seen his friends lunatic grin, a clear indicator that Finnegan is about to do something incredible stupid and possible lethal, often enough to know exactly what it looks like.

"Three, " whispers Seamus. Ron rolls his eyes and reaches for his war wand.

"Two"

"Should you by some misfortune actually survive this," Ron hisses into his friend's ear, "I_will_ fucking kill you."

Blowing him a kiss Seamus reaches for the door handle.

"Now!"

War wands at the ready the two Aurors burst through the door and find themselves face to hood with a mummed figure. Before either of them has a chance to open his mouth, be it to say something or to cast a spell, Seamus knees the stranger viciously into the groin. The shadow collapses with a pitiful whimper, clearing the line of sight to half a dozen heavily armed figures, backlight by flickering torchlight. One of them is oddly familiar.

"Hi," chirps Hamish blithely "you guys lost your way?"

* * *

The green flames of the floo connection collapse around her and Hermione steps into a gloomy cabin of unworked stone. A peat fire is smouldering in the fireplace she just left, the acrid smoke makes her eyes water. Through tears and gloom she senses more than sees a flash of copper hair. 

"Quick Gred! Sound the alarm! A man-sized drowned rat just came through the floo. It must be one of Malfoy's minions."

"My goodness. I'm on it brother dearest. Look at the tangled fur and the beastly red eyes. An exceptionally bloodthirsty monster without a doubt."

Hermione grits her teeth and wills her eyes to adjust – she really has no time for this song and dance routine. "Fred. George. Always a pleasure."

"Why it's only ickle Hermione Granger." One of the twins exclaims, voice dripping with fake surprise. "Our little brother's former heartthrob. May I be the first this fine morning to tell you how extraordinary beautiful you look today my lady most fair."

Ever since their brothers death her relationship with twins has been one of short periods of deceptive calm, followed by ferocious verbal bloodletting. But today she has no time for their mind games so she briskly brushes by the two lanky redheads, leaning on their war-wands, and throws open the heavy oak door. Outside fierce stars are blazing over the windswept heather, Greenstone Mountain a looming black shape against the night sky. Apart from the hut behind her no light or other sign of human habitation is visible for miles and miles but she knows the way by heart. The dirt track leading away from the hut is overgrown with heather and hardly visible in the darkness. No matter – her eyes will be of no use to her anyway in following the Way Of Fog And Shadows to Greenstone Hall. Anyone not privy to the path lore and key charms could wander about the Mountain for days in bright sunlight and find nothing but windswept hilltops and boulders covered in moss and stunted pines. No compass and no map will do her any good here. Closing her eyes she turns her awareness inwards, listening to rush of blood in her veins, the rustling of mice in the undergrowth, the whimpering wind in the heather.

A warm pinprick of light flares in her head and she follows its pull into the night. Where her normal senses fail her third eye will guide her. Arms stretched tentatively before her she feels her way through the darkness, seeking the beacon, which will steer her home. There is no feel of space and distance here. Normal rules don't apply. The only indication of time passing is her thunderous heart beat.

The warm glow behind her brow grows ever brighter, filling every nook of her skull with ice fire. Something cold and hard - _a sheathed claw _– touches her brainstem and whispers over her spinal cord – a playful touch with a hint of iron jaw (?steel trap?), ready to snap together and crush her like an ant.

The feeling passes as she leaves the last border wards behind her. Finally she can open her eyes and breath freely again. Not even a hundred meters before her Greenstone Hall squats on a shoulder of the Mountain, cowering like an angry dog, its turrets and towers barley visible before the rising granite cliffs, black shapes on black.

The flickering orange glow of a single torch lights the gatehouse. Looking back at the little cabin at the food of the mountain, no more than half a mile away as the raven flies, she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. _Last chance girl. Make it good. Make it very good._

Two enormous, stocky drum towers protect the gatehouse, throwing stark shadows over the portcullis. A barley visible black silhouette is waiting in the archway. She is expected. The torch by the gate flares up and hisses like an angry cat. Fiery highlights twinkle like phoenix tears in a mop of ginger hair as the eldest surviving Weasley brother steps into the pool of light.

"Are any there news from the ministry or the task force?"

Short and to the point. Charles Weasley has never been a man to waste any words.

"Few. You know what this is about?"

"I was on gate duty when Harry fire-called. The clan eldest is informed. He is expecting you in the inner keep."

Heavy black iron gates swing soundlessly inward and she enters the ancient war stronghold of the Weasel Clan. The inside is far less impressive than the massive curtain walls. Many outbuildings have fallen into disrepair; most are empty shells, roofless, deserted, abandoned to the elements. Only the dragon-pens, a big barn-like building constructed from thick slabs of iron, show signs of care and habitation.

They hasten over the deserted Courtyard to the inner gate – 5 meters of fissured granite cliff shimmer like a heat haze and disappear into thin air, revealing another set of heavy oak doors. The wings swing open before them, admitting them into a cavern hewn from the mountain. Gas lamps light a multitude of railway tracks, disappearing in dozens of tunnel entrances. Cold, wet updrafts caress her face, smelling of mineral oils, mould and … darkness.

An iron cart awaits them and Hermione scrambles in after her guide. No sooner than her second food has left contact with the ground, the cart hurtles forward into the darkness. Only Charlie's helping hand prevents her from falling flat on her face.

Gratefully Hermione leans back against the side panel and tries to catch her breath. An icy wind cools her sweat slick face as the cart barrels through a maze of dank tunnels, gloomy galleries and step ramps, penetrating ever deeper into the heart of the mountain.

"Now Hermione, tell me: what will the Aurors do?"

Charlie's eyes are piercing blue – sharper than Ron's indigo but somehow less bright – , pinning her to the spot with the force of his gaze. Here is man who sets no store by soft words and soothing lies. Here is a man who is owed truth.

"Nothing. They will do nothing. If we want to help our people we are on our own." Taking a shaky breath she summons her courage: "You know your Clan eldest better than I do. Will McNair… will he… do you think he…"

"…will help?" The eldest Weasley brother continues for her as her voice breaks. "I don't know. He has been Clan eldest for a very long time. On the one hand that means he has become a regular mother hen where the Clan is concerned on the other … he can be a right mean bastard at times. He has become rather cautious in his old age. We will have to convince him that the benefits for the Clan outweigh the dangers."

"Well they don't. This isn't about a cost-benefit analysis! This is about lives, about human beings with hobbies and humour and loved ones… why won't anybody_see_ that?" _Don't you dare to start crying now Granger! Don't you dare! You have a job to do, no time for water works._

Charlie grunts sourly and rubs the bridge of his nose. "They see just fine Hermione."

She grits her teeth hard. "I don't accept that! I won't allow it. I simply won't allow it. Not this time. We will give him no choice. Here is what we are going to do…"

* * *

"Lo and behold," Hamish chortels "Fearful Finnegan and his pal Wretched Weasley. The two most dangerous men on the isles. Oh tremble ye mighty." 

Seamus grunts ungraciously and makes a rude gesture: "Shut up sheep-fucker."

Ignoring the Irishman Hamish addresses Ron: "What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be assiduously planning our rescue master-strategist?"

"I would but we heard screaming and came to investigate."

Right on cue a bloodcurdling roar drowns out the conversation. Trying to look in all directions at once Seamus is giving a rather accurate impression of a frightened squirrel. "What the bloody hell was that?"

Shrugging Hamish nods towards a doorway: "Our resident house cat."

Ron kneels to help up the young recruit, who is still writhing on the floor. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"Come and see, you won't believe it any other way."

"We don't have time—"

Too late. Seamus is already disappearing through the door. Growling Ron props the young man up against the wall: "I _will_ kill this idiot."

"No you won't." His face contorted by pain the young recruit lets his head fall back against the wall and closes his eyes. "You will take a number and wait in line like everyone else. In line – behind me."

Grinning Ron pats his back: "That's the spirit."

Hamish's voice drifts through the doorway: "Can you take a look at this Weasley? Moody will never agree to retreat until we get access to the fucking storage room, so do us all a favour and use your fabled tactical brain, will you?"

Sighing wearily Ron follows Hamish and Seamus in the next chamber, low and dank granite arches build into the side of the hill. A monstrous obsidian sphinx is very nearly filling the room, the wings of a great iron trap door are barely visible between a pair of paws bigger than cartwheels. Stone dust wells up as the guardian creature shakes its shaggy mane, a deep rumble reverberating in its barrel-shaped chest.

"Holly Mother of Merlin! Will you look at that!"

"What _is_ that?"

"A Watcher." Every child reared in a Wizarding Clan has sucked in the tales of the Watchers in with its mother's milk. The souls of evildoers and dark wizards incarcerated in stone figures, forced to guard a site of his master's choosing until the end of days.

"Here I thought these things were outlawed under pain of the Kiss."

Seamus grunts dismissively: "The Hoods aren't exactly known for following every of the finer rules of etiquette, are they now? Far more interesting: Are we sure that beast is confined to this hall? It would be rather unfortunate for us should it suddenly be overcome by wanderlust."

"Not a whole lot we can do about that anyway." Ron answers shrugging "Rather unlikely though. After all it didn't lift a finger while we killed the whole garrison. If it had the ability or inclination that would have been the opportune moment."

"Be that as it may. It's still sitting on our objective and there is no way in but through the door. The room is heavily armoured, we simply haven't enough fireoil left to blast our way in."

Sighing Ron pinches the bridge of his nose: "Moody and his curse breaker are on it. With a little time they will find the access spell in the memory crystals and save us all a lot of grieve."

"Time being exactly the one commodity we don't have," grumbles Hamish.

Seamus' fingers are beating an impatient rhythm on the dark granite walls. "Has anyone even tried to approach that thing? Maybe we could just try to talk our way past it. Maybe there isn't even a password set to it."

Defensively he returns Ron's and Hamish's wide eyed stare. "What? It's possible."

Smiling gently Ron answers loudly and slowly: "Seamus? To answer your questions: No. No. And finally: Are you barmy?"

"We are running out of time. Every minute we spend here they might decide to attack and then we are all dead. You said so yourself."

"I remember just fine, thank you very much. I also said you are an idiot, which is far more relevant at the moment. Do you want to prove me right?"

"A single man for the whole task fore is an acceptable risk. I only want—"

"No. Whatever it is – just don't. You don't put a Watcher on something just for shit and giggles. Try to approach it and you will probably loose your head. These things are nasty."

"Also," Hamish pipes up, turning towards the door "we already tried. The racket you heard, that was me – not getting dismembered by a block of black marble with anger issues."

"Ah. I _thought_ I heard a women screaming. But that explains it just as well." Grinning the youngest Weasley boy falls in step beside Hamish. "It was really giving me a headache but I figured Seamus…Seamus? Oh for fucks sake."

When the both Aurors whirl around their friend has already nearly reached his destination. His long legs have carried Seamus Liam Finnegan right under the drooling jaws of the Watcher. His chin defiantly protruding he rests the tip of his wand against the onyx black pelt of the sphinx's chest. For a second the sphinx seems to be more confused and slightly curious than annoyed. Cocking its head the watcher tries to focus the cheeky ant under its feed, yet undecided if it wants to play or feed.

Seamus takes a deep breath, his face is very white against the black pelt of the sphinx but when he speaks his voice is loud and clear and trembles only very slightly against the end.

"Let me pass. I command you. Mellon!"

Lazily the Watcher lifts one of his paws, claws the size of short swords flashing in the torch light.

"Oh shit," says Hamish.

* * *

(1) (Who is afraid of the Bogeyman? No one I know.) 

(2) (All I knew long are dead and gone – their ash and dust a-blow)


End file.
